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And to the Waggon's skirts was tied
“ Thy Wife and Child are snug and warm, Thy Ship will travel without harm; I like,” said Benjamin, “ her shape and stature ; And this of mine — this bulky Creature Of which I have the steering — this, Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! We want your streamers, Friend, you know ; But, all together, as we go, We make a kind of handsome show!
Among these hills, from first to last, We've weathered many a furious blast ; Hard passage forcing on, with head Against the storm and canvas spread.
I hate a boaster -- but to thee
“ Aye,” said the Tar, “ through fair and
Till, not incensed though put to proof,
“ Yon Screech-owl,” says the Sailor, turning Back to his former cause of mourning, “ Yon Owl! - pray God that all be well ! 'Tis worse than any funeral bell ; As sure as I've the gift of sight . . We shall be meeting Ghosts to-night !". - Said Benjamin, “ This whip shall lay A thousand if they cross our way. I know that Wanton’s noisy station, I know him and his occupation; The jolly Bird hath learned his cheer On the banks of Windermere; Where a tribe of them make merry, .. Mocking the Man that keeps the Ferry; Hallooing from an open throat, .. . Like Travellers shouting for a Boat. - The tricks he learned at Windermere This vagrant Owl is playing here
That is the worst of his employment ;
This explanation stilled the alarm, Cured the foreboder like a charm ; This, and the manner, and the voice, Summoned the Sailor to rejoice; His heart is up — he fears no evil From life or death, from man or devil ; He wheeled - and, making many stops, Brandished his crutch against the mountain tops; And, while he talked of blows and scars, Benjamin, among the stars, Beheld a dancing - and a glancing ; Such retreating and advancing As, I ween, was never seen In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars !
Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, Beguile the remnant of the night; And many a snatch of jovial song Regales them as they wind along; While to the music, from on high, The echoes make a glad reply. – But the sage Muse the revel heeds No farther than her story needs ; Nor will she servilely attend The loitering journey to its end. - Blithe Spirits of her own impel The Muse, who scents the morning air, To take of this transported Pair