’Twas first of morn on Saturday,
The seven-and-twentieth day of May,
When Hogarth, Thornhill, Tothall, Scott,
And Forrest, who this journal wrote,
From Covent-Garden took departure,
To see the world by land and water.
Our march we with a song begin;
Our hearts were light, our breeches thin.
We meet with nothing of adventure
Till Billingsgate’s Dark-house we enter.
Where we diverted were, while baiting,
With ribaldry, not worth relating
(Quite suited to the dirty place)
But what most pleas’d us was his Grace
Of Puddle Dock, a porter grim,
Whose portrait Hogarth, in a whim,
Presented him in caricature,
He pasted on the cellar door.[347]
But hark! the Watchman cries “Past one!”
’Tis time that we on board were gone.
Clean straw we find laid for our bed,
A tilt for shelter over head.
The boat is soon got under sail,
Wind near S. E. a mack’rel gale,
Attended by a heavy rain;
We try to sleep, but try in vain,
So sing a song, and then begin
To feast on biscuit, beef, and gin.
At Purfleet find three men of war,
The Dursley galley, Gibraltar,
And Tartar pink, and of this last
The pilot begg’d of us a cast
To Gravesend, which he greatly wanted,
And readily by us was granted.
The grateful man, to make amends,
Told how the officers and friends
Of England were by Spaniards treated,
And shameful instances repeated.
While he these insults was deploring,
Hogarth, like Premier, fell to snoring,
But waking cry’d, “I dream’d”—and then
Fell fast asleep, and snor’d again.
The morn clear’d up, and after five
At port of Gravesend we arrive,
But found it hard to get on shore,
His boat a young son of a whore
Had fix’d just at our landing-place,
And swore we should not o’er it pass;
But, spite of all the rascal’s tricks,
We made a shift to land by six,
And up to Mrs. Bramble’s go
[A house that we shall better know],
There get a barber for our wigs,
Wash hands and faces, stretch our legs,
Had toast and butter, and a pot
Of coffee (our third breakfast) got:
Then, paying what we had to pay,
For Rochester we took our way,
Viewing the new church as we went,
And th’ unknown person’s monument.
The beauteous prospects found us talk,
And shorten’d much our two hours walk,
Though by the way we did not fail
To stop and take three pots of ale,
And this enabled us by ten
At Rochester to drink again.
Now, Muse, assist, while I declare
(Like a true English traveller)
What vast variety we survey
In the short compass of one day.
We scarce had lost the sight of Thames,
When the fair Medway’s winding streams,
And far-extending Rochester,
Before our longing eyes appear:
The Castle and Cathedral grace
One prospect, so we mend our pace;
Impatient for a nearer view,
But first must Strood’s rough street trudge through,
And this our feet no short one find;
However, with a cheerful mind,
All difficulties we get o’er,
And soon are on the Medway’s shore.
New objects here before us rise,
And more than satisfy our eyes.
The stately Bridge from side to side,
The roaring cataracts of the tide,
Deafen our ears, and charm our sight,
And terrify while they delight.
These we pass over to the Town,
And take our Quarters at The Crown,
To which the Castle is so near,
That we all in a hurry were
The grand remains on’t to be viewing;
It is indeed a noble ruin,
Must have been very strong, but length
Of time has much impair’d its strength:
The lofty Tower as high or higher
Seems than the old Cathedral’s spire;
Yet we determin’d were to gain
Its top, which cost some care and pain;
When there arriv’d, we found a well,
The depth of which I cannot tell;
Small holes cut in on every side
Some hold for hands and feet provide,
By which a little boy we saw
Go down, and bring up a jack-daw.
All round about us then we gaze,
Observing, not without amaze,
How towns here undistinguish’d join,
And one vast One to form combine.
Chatham with Rochester seems but one,
Unless we’re shewn the boundary stone,
That and its yards contiguous lie
To pleasant Brompton standing high;
The Bridge across the raging flood
Which Rochester divides from Strood,
Extensive Strood, on t’other side,
To Frindsbury quite close ally’d,
The country round, and river fair,
Our prospects made beyond compare,
Which quite in raptures we admire;
Then down to face of earth retire.
Up the Street walking, first of all
We take a view of the Town-Hall.
Proceeding farther on, we spy
A house, design’d to catch the eye,
With front so rich, by plastick skill,
As made us for a while stand still:
Four huge Hobgoblins grace the wall,
Which we four Bas Relievo’s call;
They the four Seasons represent,
At least were form’d for that intent.
Then Watts’s Hospital we see
(No common curiosity);
Endow’d (as on the front appears)
In favour of poor travellers;
Six such it every night receives,
Supper and lodging gratis gives,
And to each man next morn does pay
A groat, to keep him on his way:
But the contagiously infected,
And rogues and proctors, are rejected.
It gave us too some entertainment
To find out what this bounteous man meant,
Yet were we not so highly feasted.
But that we back to dinner hasted.
By twelve again we reach The Crown,
But find our meat not yet laid down,
So (spite of “Gentlemen, d’ye call?”)
On chairs quite fast asleep we fall,
And with clos’d eyes again survey
In dreams what we have seen to-day;
Till dinner’s coming up, when we
As ready are as that can be.
If we describe it not, we’re undone,
You’ll scarce believe we came from London,
With due attention then prepare
Yourself to hear our bill of fare
For our first course a dish there was
Of soles and flounders with crab-sauce,
A stuff’d and roast calf’s-heart beside,
With ’purt’nance minc’d, and liver fry’d;
And for a second course, they put on
Green pease and roasted leg of mutton.
The cook was much commended for’t;
Fresh was the beer, and sound the port;
So that nem. con. we all agree
(Whatever more we have to see)
From table we’ll not rise till three.
Our shoes are clean’d, ’tis three o’clock,
Come let’s away to Chatham-Dock;
We shan’t get there till almost four,
To see’t will take at least an hour;
Yet Scott and Hogarth needs must stop
At the Court-Hall to play Scotch hop.
To Chatham got, ourselves we treat
With Shrimps, which as we walk we eat,
For speed we take a round-about-
way, as we afterwards found out:
At length reach the King’s yards and docks
Admire the ships there on the stocks,
The men of war afloat we view,
Find means to get aboard of two;[348]
But here I must not be prolix,
For we went home again at six,
There smoak’d our pipes, and drank our wine,
And comfortably sat till nine,
Then, with our travels much improv’d,
To our respective beds we mov’d.
Sunday at seven we rub our eyes,
But are too lazy yet to rise,
Hogarth and Thornhill tell their dreams,
And, reasoning deeply on those themes,
After much learned speculation,
Quite suitable to the occasion,
Left off as wise as they begun,
Which made for us in bed good fun.
But by and by, when up we got,
Sam Scott was missing, “Where’s Sam Scott?”
“Oh! here he comes. Well! whence come you?”
“Why from the bridge, taking a view
Of something that did highly please me,
But people passing by would teaze me
With ‘Do you work on Sundays, friend?’
So that I could not make an end.”
At this we laugh’d, for ’twas our will
Like men of taste that day to kill.
So after breakfast we thought good
To cross the bridge again to Strood:
Thence eastward we resolve to go,
And through the Hundred march of Hoo,
Wash’d on the north side by the Thames,
And on the south by Medway’s streams,
Which to each other here incline,
Till at the Nore in one they join.
Before we Frindsbury could gain,
There fell a heavy shower of rain,
When crafty Scott a shelter found
Under a hedge upon the ground,
There of his friends a joke he made,
But rose most woefully bewray’d;
How against him the laugh was turn’d,
And he the vile disaster mourn’d!
We work, all hands, to make him clean,
And fitter to be fitly seen.
But, while we scrap’d his back and side,
All on a sudden, out he cried,
“I’ve lost my cambrick handkercher,
’Twas lent me by my wife so dear:
What I shall do I can’t devise,
I’ve nothing left to wipe my eyes.”
At last the handkerchief was found,
To his great comfort, safe and sound,
He’s now recover’d and alive;
So in high spirits all arrive
At Frindsbury, fatn’d for prospects fair,
But we much more diverted were
With what the parish church did grace,
“A list of some who lov’d the place,
In memory of their good actions,
And gratitude for their benefactions.
Witnes our hands—Will. Gibbons, Vicar—”
And no one else.—This made us snicker:
At length, with countenances serious,
We all agreed it was mysterious,
Not guessing that the reason might
Be, the Churchwardens could not write.
At ten, in council it was mov’d.
Whoe’er was tir’d, or disapprov’d
Of our proceedings, might go back,
And cash to bear his charges take.
With indignation this was heard.
Each was for all events prepar’d.
So all with one consent agreed
To Upnor-Castle to proceed,
And at the sutler’s there we din’d
On such coarse fare as we could find.
The Castle was not large, but strong,
And seems to be of standing long.
Twenty-four men its garrison,
And just for every man a gun;
Eight guns were mounted, eight men active,
The rest were rated non-effective.
Here an old couple, who had brought
Some cockles in their boat, besought
That one of us would buy a few,
For they were very fresh and new.
I did so, and ’twas charity;
He was quite blind, and half blind she.
Now growing frolicksome and gay,
Like boys, we after dinner play,
But, as the scene lay in a fort,
Something like war must be our sport:
Sticks, stones, and hogs-dung were our weapons,
And, as in such frays oft it happens,
Poor Tothall’s cloaths here went to pot,
So that he could not laugh at Scott.
From hence all conquerors we go
To visit the church-yard at Hoo.
At Hoo we found an Epitaph,
Which made us (as ’twill make you) laugh:
A servant maid, turn’d poetaster,
Wrote it in honour of her master;

I therefore give you (and I hope you
Will like it well) a Vera Copia:
“And . wHen . he . Died . You plainly . see
Hee . freely . gave . al . to . Sara . passaWee.
And . in . Doing . so . it DoTh . prevail .
that . Ion . him . can . well . bes . Tow . this Rayel .
On . Year . I sarved . him . it is well . none .
BuT Thanks . beto . God . it . is . all my . One.”

Long at one place we must not stay,
’Tis almost four, let’s haste away.
But here’s a sign; ’tis rash, we think,
To leave the place before we drink.
We meet with liquor to our mind,
Our hostess complaisant and kind:
She was a widow, who, we found,
Had (as the phrase is) been shod round,
That is, had buried husbands four,
And had no want of charms for more;
Yet her we leave, and, as we go,
Scott bravely undertook to show
That through the world we could not pass,
How thin soe’er our breeches was;
“’Tis true, indeed, we may go round,
But through”—then pointed to the ground.
So well he manag’d the debate,
We own’d he was a man of weight:
And so indeed he was this once,
His pockets we had fill’d with stones.
But here we’d serv’d ourselves a trick,
Of which he might have made us sick;
We’d furnish’d him with ammunition
Fit to knock down all opposition;
And, knowing well his warmth of temper,
Out of his reach began to scamper,
Till, growing cooler, he pretends
His passion feign’d, so all are friends.
Our danger now becomes a joke,
And peaceably we go to Stoke.
About the church we nothing can see
To strike or entertain our fancy:
But near a farm, or an elm tree,
A long pole fix’d upright we see,
And tow’rd the top of it was plac’d
A weathercock, quite in high taste,
Which all of us, ere we go further,
Pronounce of the Composite order.
First, on a board turn’d by the wind,
A painter had a cock design’d,
A common weathercock was above it,
This turn’d too as the wind did move it;
Then on the spindle’s point so small
A shuttlecock stuck o’ertopp’d them all.
This triple alliance gave occasion
To much improving speculation.
Alas! we ne’er know when we are well,
So at Northfleet again must quarrel;
But fought not here with sticks and stones
(For those, you know, might break our bones)
A well just by, full to the brim,
Did fitter for our purpose seem;
So furiously we went to dashing,
Till our coats wanted no more washing;
But this our heat and courage cooling,
’Twas soon high time to leave such fooling.
To The Nag’s Head we therefore hie,
To drink, and to be turn’d adry.
At six, while supper was preparing,
And we about the marsh-lands staring,
Our two game cocks, Tothall and Scott,
To battling once again were got:
But here no weapons could they find,
Save what the cows dropp’d from behind;
With these they pelted, till we fancy
Their cloaths look’d something like a tansy.
At seven we all come home again,
Tothall and Scott their garments clean;
Supper we get, and, when that’s o’er,
A tiff of punch drink at the door;
Then, as the beds were only three,
Draw cuts who shall so lucky be
As here to sleep without a chum;
To Tothall’s share the prize did come;
Hogarth and Thornhill, Scott and I,
In pairs, like man and wife, must lie.
Then mighty frolicksome they grow,
At Scott and me the stocking throw,
Fight with their wigs, in which perhaps
They sleep, for here we found no caps.
Up at eleven again we get,
Our sheets were so confounded wet;
We dress, and lie down in our cloaths;
Monday, at three, awak’d and rose.
And of the cursed gnats complain,
Yet make a shift to sleep again.
Till six o’clock we quiet lay,
And then got out for the whole day;
To fetch a barber out we send;
Stripp’d, and in boots, he does attend,
For he’s a fisherman by trade;
Tann’d was his face, shock was his head;
He flowers our wigs and trims our faces,
And the top barber of the place is.
The cloth is for our breakfast spread,
A bowl of milk and toasted bread
Are brought, of which while Forrest eats,
To draw our pictures Hogarth sits;
Thornhill is in the barber’s hands,
Shaving himself Will Tothall stands;
While Scott is in a corner sitting,
And an unfinish’d piece completing.
Our reckoning about eight we pay,
And take for Isle of Greane our way;
To keep the road we were directed,
But, as ’twas bad, this rule neglected;
A tempting path over a stile
Led us astray above a mile;
Yet the right road at last we gain,
And joy to find ourselves at Greane;
Where my Dame Husbands, at The Chequer,
Refresh’d us with some good malt liquor;
Into her larder then she runs,
Brings out salt pork, butter, and buns,
And coarse black bread, but that’s no matter,
’Twill fortify us for the water.
Here Scott so carefully laid down
His penknife which had cost a crown,
That all in vain we sought to find it,
And, for his comfort, say, “Ne’er mind it;”
For to Sheerness we now must go:
To this the ferryman says, “No.”
We to another man repair’d:
He too says, “No—it blows too hard.”
But, while we study how to get there,
In spite of this tempestuous weather,
Our landlady a scheme propos’d,
With which we fortunately clos’d,
Was to the shore to go, and try
To hail the ships in ordinary,
So we might get, for no great matter,
A boat to take us o’er the water.
We haste, and soon the shore we tread,
With various kinds of shells bespread,
And in a little time we spy’d
A boat approaching on our side;
The man to take us in agreed,
But that was difficult indeed,
Till, holding in each hand an oar,
He made a sort of bridge to shore,
O’er which on hands and knees we crawl,
And so get safe on board the yawl.
In little time we seated were,
And now to Shepey’s coast draw near;
When suddenly, with loud report,
The cannons roar from ships and fort,
And, like tall fellows, we impute
To our approach this grand salute.
But soon, alas! our pride was humbled,
And from this fancy’d height we tumbled,
On recollecting that the day
The nine and twentieth was of May.
The firing had not long been ended,
Before at Sheerness we were landed,
Where on the battery while we walk,
And of the charming prospect talk,
Scott from us in a hurry runs,
And, getting to the new-fir’d guns,
Unto their touch-holes clapp’d his nose;
Hogarth sits down, and trims his toes;
These whims when we had made our sport,
Our turn we finish round the fort,
And are at one for Queenborough going:
Bleak was the walk, the wind fierce blowing,
And driving o’er our heads the spray;
On loose beach stones, our pebbly way,
But Thornhill only got a fall,
Which hurt him little, if at all:
So merrily along we go,
And reach that famous town by two.
Queenborough consists of one short street,
Broad, and well-pav’d, and very neat;
Nothing like dirt offends the eye,
Scarce any people could we spy:
The town-house, for the better show
Is mounted on a portico
Of piers and arches, number four,
And crown’d at top with a clock tower;
But all this did not reach so high
As a flag-staff, that stood just by,
On which a standard huge was flying
(The borough’s arms, the king’s supplying)
Which on high festivals they display
To do the honours of the day.
As for salutes, excus’d they are,
Because they have no cannon there.
To the church-yard we first repair,
And hunt for choice inscriptions there.
Search stones and rails, till almost weary all
In hopes to find something material.
When one at last, of pyebald style
(Though grave the subject) made us smile:
Telling us first, in humble prose,
“That Henry Knight doth here repose,
A Greenland Trader twice twelve year,
As master and as harpooner:”
Then, in as humble verse, we read
(As by himself in person said)
“In Greenland I whales, sea-horse, and bears did slay
Though now my body is intombed in clay.”
The house at which we were to quarter
Is call’d The Swans; this rais’d our laughter,
Because the sign is The Red Lion,
So strange a blunder we cry “Fie on!”
But, going in, all neat we see
And clean; so was our landlady:
With great civility she told us,
She had not beds enough to hold us,
But a good neighbour had just by,
Where some of us perhaps might lie.
She sends to ask. The merry dame
Away to us directly came,
Quite ready our desires to grant,
And furnish us with what we want.
Back to the church again we go,
Which is but small, ill built, and low,
View’d the inside, but still we see
Nothing of curiosity,
Unless we suffer the grave-digger
In this our work to make a figure,
Whom just beside us now we have,
Employ’d in opening of a grave.
A prating spark indeed he was,
Knew all the scandal of the place,
And often rested from his labours,
To give the history of his neighbours;
Told who was who, and what was what,
Till on him we bestow’d a pot.
(For he forgot not, you may think,
“Masters, I hope you’ll make me drink!”).
At this his scurrilous tongue run faster,
Till “a sad dog” he call’d his master,
Told us the worshipful the Mayor
Was but a custom house officer,
Still rattling on till we departed,
Not only with his tales diverted,
But so much wisdom we had got,
We treated him with t’other pot.
Return we now to the town-hall,
That, like the borough, is but small,
Under its portico’s a space,
Which you may call the market place,
Just big enough to hold the stocks,
And one, if not two, butchers’ blocks,
Emblems of plenty and excess,
Though you can no where meet with less:
For though ’tis call’d & market-town
(As they are not asham’d to own)
Yet we saw neither butcher’s meat,
Nor fish, nor fowl, nor aught to eat.
Once in seven years, they say, there’s plenty,
When strangers come to represent ye.
Hard at The Swans had been our fare,
But that some Harwich men were there,
Who lately had some lobsters taken,
With which, and eke some eggs and bacon,
Our bellies we design to fill;
But first will clamber up the hill,
A most delightful spot of ground,
O’erlooking all the country round;
On which there formerly has been
The palace of Philippa, queen
To the third Edward, as they tell,
Now nought remains on’t but a well:
But ’tis from hence, says common fame,
The borough gets its royal name.
Two sailors at this well we meet,
And do each other kindly greet:
“What brings you here, my lads?” cry we.
“Thirst, please your honours, as you see;
For (adds the spokesman) we are here
Waiting for our young officer,
A midshipman on board The Rose,
(For General S——’s son he goes)
We and our messmates, six in all,
Yesterday brought him in our yawl,
And when, as we had been commanded,
Quite safe and dry we had him landed,
By running of her fast aground
At tide of ebb, he quickly found
That he might go and see Sheerness,
So here he left us pennyless,
To feast on Queenborough air and water,
Or starve, to him ’tis no great matter;
While he among his friends at ease is,
And will return just when he pleases;
Perhaps he may come back to-day;
If not, he knows that we must stay.”
So one of us gave him a tester,
When both cried out, “God bless you, master!”
Then ran to rouse their sleeping fellows,
To share their fortune at the alehouse.
Hence to the creek-side, one and all,
We go to see The Rose’s yawl,
And found her bedded in the mud,
Immovable till tide of flood.
The sailors here had cockles got,
Which gratefully to us they brought,
’Twas all with which they could regale us;
This t’ other sixpence sent to th’ alehouse:
So merrily they went their way,
And we were no less pleas’d than they.
At seven about the town we walk,
And with some pretty damsels talk,
Beautiful nymphs indeed, I ween,
Who came to see, and to be seen.
Then to our Swans returning, there
We borrow’d a great wooden chair,
And plac’d it in the open street,
Where, in much state did Hogarth sit
To draw the townhouse, church, and steeple,
Surrounded by a crowd of people;
Tag, rag, and bobtail, stood quite thick there,
And cry’d, “What a sweet pretty picture!”
This was not finish’d long before
We saw, about the Mayor’s fore-door,
Our honest sailors in a throng:
We call’d one of them from among
The rest, to tell us the occasion;
Of which he gave us this relation:
“Our midshipman is just come back,
And chanc’d to meet or overtake
A sailor walking with a woman
(May be she’s honest, may be common):
He thought her handsome, so his honour
Would needs be very sweet upon her:
But this the seaman would not suf-
-fer, and this put him in a huff.
‘Lubber, avast,’ says sturdy John,
‘Avast, I say, let her alone;
You shall not board her, she’s my wife.
Sheer off, Sir, if you love your life:
I’ve a great mind your back to lick;’
And up he held his oaken stick.
“Our midship hero this did scare:
I’ll swear the peace before the Mayor,”
Says he, so to the Mayor’s they trudge:
How such a case by such a judge
Determin’d was I cannot say,
We thought it not worth while to stay:
For it strikes nine, “How th’ evening spends
“Come, let us drink to all our friends
A chearful glass, and eat a bit.”
So to our supper down we sit,
When something merry check’d our mirth:
The Harwich men had got a birth
Closely adjoining to our room,
And were to spend their evening come:
The wall was thin, and they so near,
That all they say, or sing, we hear.
We sung our songs, we crack’d our jokes,
Their emulation this provokes;
And they perform’d so joyously,
As distanc’d hollow all our glee;
So (were it not a bull) I’d say,
This night they fairly won the day.
Now plenteously we drink of flip,
In hopes we shall the better sleep;
Some rest the long day’s work requires;
Scott to his lodging first retires;
His landlady is waiting for him,
And to his chamber walks before him;
In her fair hand a light she bears,
And shows him up the garret-stairs;
Away comes he greatly affronted,
And his disgrace to us recounted,
This makes us game, we roast him for it,
“Scott’s too high-minded for a garret.”
But Tothall more humanely said,
“Come, Scott, be easy, take my bed,
And to your garret I will go.”
(This great good-nature sure did show)
There finding nought him to entertain
But a flock-bed without a curtain,
He too in haste came back, and got
Away to share his bed with Scott,
And at eleven each goes to nest,
Till Tuesday morn to take his rest.
At six comes Hogarth, “Rise, Sirs, rise,”
Says he, with roguery in his eyes,
“Scott’s landlady is below stairs;
And roundly the good woman swears,
That for his lodging he shall pay,
(Where his tir’d bones he scorn’d to lay)
Or he should go before the Mayor.”
She’s in the right on’t, we declare,
For this would cut the matter short,
(At least ’twould make us special sport);
But here she balk’d us, and, no doubt,
Had wit enough to find us out.
Our mark thus miss’d, we kindly go
To see how he and Tothall do.
We find the doors all open were,
(It seems that’s not unusual here)
They’re very well, but Scott last night
Had been in a most dreadful fright:
“When to his room he got,” he said,
“And just was stepping into bed,
He thought he saw the bed-cloaths stir,
So back he flew in mortal fear;
But, taking heart of grace, he try’d
To feel what ’twas, when out it cry’d;
Again he starts, but to his joy
It prov’d a little harmless boy,
Who by mistake had thither crept,
And soundly (till he wak’d him) slept.
So from his fears recover’d quite,
He got to sleep, and slept all night.”
We laugh at this, and he laughs too,
For, pray, what better could he do?
At ten we leave our Lion-Swans,
And to the higher lands advance,
Call on our laundress by the way,
For the led shirts left yesterday
To wash; “She’s sorry, they’re not yet
Quite dry!”—“Why then we’ll take them wet
They’ll dry and iron’d be, we hope,
At Minster, where we next shall stop.”
The way was good, the weather fair,
The prospects most delightful were.
To Minster got, with labour hard
We climb’d the hill to the church-yard,
But, when arriv’d there, did not fail
To read some verses on a rail
Well worth transcribing, we agree,
Whether you think so, you may see.
“Here interr’d George Anderson doth lye,
By fallen on an anchor he did dye
In Sheerness yard on Good Friday
The 6th of April, I do say,
All you that read my allegy be alwaies
Ready for to dye—aged 42 years.”
Of monuments that here they shew
Within the church, we drew but two;
One an ambassador of Spain’s,
T’other Lord Shorland’s dust contains,
Of whom they have a wondrous story,
Which (as they tell) I’ll lay before ye.
[349]The Lord of Shorland, on a day,
Chancing to take a ride this way,
About a corpse observ’d a crowd,
Against their priest complaining loud,
That he would not the service say
Till somebody his fees should pay.
On this his lordship too did rave,
And threw the priest into the grave,
“Make haste and fill it up,” said he,
“We’ll bury both without a fee.”
But when got home, and cool, reflecting
On the strange part he had been acting,
He drew a state up of the case,
Humbly petitioning for grace,
And to the sea gallop’d away,
Where, at that time, a frigate lay,
With Queen Elizabeth on board,
When (strange to tell!) this hare-brain’d Lord
On horseback swam to the ship’s side,
And there to see the Queen apply’d.
His case she reads; her royal breast
Is mov’d to grant him his request.
His pardon thankfully he takes,
And, swimming still, to land he makes:
But on his riding up the beach,
He an old woman met, a witch:
“This horse, which now your life doth save,
Says she, “will bring you to the grave.”
“You’ll prove a liar,” says my lord,
“You ugly hag!” and with his sword
(Acting a most ungrateful part)
His panting steed stabb’d to the heart.
It happen’d, after many a day,
That with some friends he stroll’d that way,
And this strange story, as they walk,
Became the subject of their talk:
When, “There the carcase lies,” he cry’d,
“Upon the beach by the sea side.”
As ’twas not far, he led them to’t,
And kick’d the skull up with his foot,
When a sharp bone pierc’d through his shoe,
And wounded grievously his toe,
Which mortify’d; so he was kill’d,
And the hag’s prophecy fulfill’d.
See there his cross-legg’d figure laid,
And near his feet the horse’s head!
The tomb[350] is of too old a fashion
To tally well with this narration;
But of the truth we would not doubt,
Nor put our Cicerone out:
It gives a moral hint at least,
That gratitude’s due to a beast.
So far it’s good, whoever made it,
And that it may not fail of credit,
A horsehead vane adorns the steeple,
And it’s Horse-church call’d by the people.
Our shirts dry’d at The George we get,
We dine there, and till four we sit;
And now in earnest think of home;
So to Sheerness again we come,
Where for a bum-boat we agree,
And about five put off to sea.
We presently were under sail,
The tide our friend, south-east the gale,
Quite wind enough, and some to spare,
But we to that accustom’d were.
When we had now got past The Nore,
And lost the sight of Shepey’s shore,
The ebbing tide of Thames we met,
The wind against it fiercely set;
This made a short and tumbling sea,
And finely toss’d indeed were we.
The porpoises in stormy weather
Are often seen in shoals together
About us while they roll and play,
One in his gambols miss’d his way,
And threw himself so far on shore,
We thought he would get off no more;
But with great straggling, and some pain,
He did, and went to play again.
On this we moralising say,
“How thoughtless is the love of play!”
When we ourselves with sorrow find
Our pleasures too with pain conjoin’d.
For troubles crowd upon us thick;
Our hero, Scott, grows very sick;
Poor Hogarth makes wry faces too
(Worse faces than he ever drew).
You’ll guess what were the consequences,
Not overpleasing to our senses;
And this misfortune was augmented
By Master Tothall’s being acquainted
With the commander of a sloop,
At Holy Haven near The Hope.
“There’s Captain Robinson,” says he,
“A friend, whom I must call and see.”
Up the ship’s side he nimbly goes,
While we lie overwhelm’d with woes,
Sick, and of winds and waves the sport,
But then he made his visit short,
And when a sup of punch he’d got,
Some lighted match to us he brought
A sovereign cordial this, no doubt,
To men whose pipes had long been out.
By seven o’clock our sick recover,
And all are glad this trouble’s over.
Now jovially we sail along,
Our cockswain giving song for song.
But soon our notes are chang’d; we found
Our boat was on Bly-sand aground,
Just in the middle of the river;
Here Tothall shew’d himself quite clever:
And, knowing we must else abide
Till lifted by the flowing tide,
Work’d without skippers, till the boat
Was once more happily afloat.
We all applaud his care and skill,
So do the boatmen his good-will.
Ere long the tide made upward, so
With that before the wind we go,
And, disembarking about ten,
Our Gravesend quarters reach again.
Here Madam, smiling, comes to tell
How glad she is to see us well:
This kind reception we commended;
And now thought all our troubles ended;
But, when for what we want we call,
Something unlucky did befall.
When we our travels first began
Scott (who’s a very prudent man)
Thought a great coat could do no harm,
And in the boat might keep him warm;
So far perhaps you think him right,
As we took water in the night:
But when from hence we took our way
On foot, the latter end of May,
He, quite as reasonably, thought
’Twould be too heavy or too hot;
“I’ll leave it here,” says he, “and take
It with me at our coming back.”
And he most certainly design’d it,
But now the thing was, how to find it?
We told him he had been mistaken,
And did without his hostess reckon.
To him it was no jest; he swore,
“He left it there three days before.”
“This Mrs. Bramble can’t deny.”
“Sir, we shall find it by and by:”
So out she goes, and rends her throat
With “Moll, go find the gem’man’s coat.”
The house Moll searches round and round.
At last, with much ado, ’twas found—
’Twas found, that, to the owner’s cost,
Or Scott’s, the borrow’d coat was lost.
“Coat lost!” says he, stamping and staring.
Then stood like dumb, then fell to swearing:
He curs’d the ill-concluding ramble,
He curs’d Gravesend and mother Bramble.
But, while his rage he thus express’d,
And we his anger made our jest,
Till wrath had almost got the upper-
-hand of his reason, in came supper:
To this at once his stomach turn’d,
No longer it with fury burn’d,
But hunger took the place of rage,
And a good meal did both assuage.
He eat and drank, he drank and eat,
The wine commended, and the meat;
So we did all, and sat so late,
That Wednesday morn we lay till eight.
Tobacco then, and wine provide,
Enough to serve us for this tide.
Get breakfast, and our reckoning pay,
And next prepare for London hey;
So, hiring to ourselves a wherry,
We put off, all alive and merry.
The tide was strong, fair was the wind,
Gravesend is soon left far behind,
Under the tilt on straw we lay,
Observing what a charming day,
There stretch’d at ease we smoke and drink,
Londoners like, and now we think
Our cross adventures all are past,
And that at Gravesend was the last:
But cruel Fate to that says no;
One yet shall Fortune find his foe.
While we (with various prospects cloy’d)
In clouds of smoke ourselves enjoy’d,
More diligent and curious, Scott
Into the forecastle had got,
And took his papers out, to draw
Some ships which right ahead he saw.
There sat he, on his work intent,
When, to increase our merriment,
So luckily we shipp’d a sea,
That he got sous’d, and only he.
This bringing to his mind a thought
How much he wanted his great coat,
Renew’d his anger and his grief;
He curs’d Gravesend, the coat, and thief;
And, still to heighten his regret,
His shirt was in his breeches wet:
He draws it out, and lets it fly,
Like a French ensign, till ’tis dry,
Then, creeping into shelter safe,
Joins with the company and laugh.
Nothing more happen’d worthy note:
At Billingsgate we change our boat,
And in another through bridge get,
By two, to Stairs of Somerset,
Welcome each other to the shore,
To Covent Garden walk once more,
And, as from Bedford Arms we started,
There wet our whistles ere we parted.
With pleasure I observe, none idle
Were in our travels, or employ’d ill.
Tothall, our treasurer, was just,
And worthily discharg’d his trust;
(We all sign’d his accounts as fair;)
Sam Scott and Hogarth, for their share,
The prospects of the sea and land did;
As Thornhill of our tour the plan did;
And Forrest wrote this true relation
Of our five days peregrination.
This to attest, our names we’ve wrote all,
Viz. Thornhill, Hogarth, Scott, and Tothall.