by Shirley Brooks.
Originally published in Tinsley's Magazine (Tinsley Bros.) vol.1 #1 (Aug 1867).
H.M.S, R— S—, Spithead, July 17, 1867.
From a stern iron turret, which kind Blacksmith Burritt
Would laud for its work, though he hates its design,
(Scribing here because mensis velociter currit,)
Receive, my dear Y—, contribution of mine.
I promised some verses, and know that your c-rs-s
Descend somewhat freely on "copy" that's late;
So be thankful for small as for magnified mercies—
The lines shall be few, and the printer sha'n't wait.
This is not quite a station for calm meditation;
I've crawled through a hole like the Pyramid door,
And have climbed by a rope to a high elevation,
And write on a gun with a horrible roar.
Her powder is in her; but hard at their dinner
Are gunners, who've left her to darkness and me;
So I'm safe till her captain, whose name it is Skinner,
Shall spring to my place at his Captain's decree.
Thirty-five pounds of powder (no cannon talks louder)
Repose in grim silence just under the lock,
And I feel that my verse should be stronger and prouder
For resting on strength that could shatter a rock.
My heart is inditing; but one thought, alighting,
Impedes the bold metre's poetical flow,—
If the blessed old gun should go off while I'm writing,
You'll treat my executors handsome, I know!
I suspect we are neighbours, and Editor's labours
Desert Magazine for the sake of Review;
You're sailing out yonder, no doubt; and, by jabers!
My friend Dr. Brady is one of the crew.
Certain hints (and folks pen 'em with some little venom)
Warn the Upper Ten (us) against drinking too free;
So health to you two in pure water and Wenham
(Just shaded to amber by one goutte d'esprit)!
I'll spare the infliction—the old benediction,
"Prosperity's breezes" and "filling your sail;"
Sails are read of alone in unsaleable fiction—
May your fires be all hot, and your steam never fail!
"Happy thought" brought to aid ye that same Docthor Brady,—
Praps you've heard the quotation, nil tetigit quod;
And you're Some, my old friend, and your book, by our Lady!
Will do, if half equal to Kissing the Rod.
At the doorstep of T—y whatever bad sins lie,—
We never yet heard that there ever was one
(I'm short of a rhyme, which annoys me imminsly),—
You can't say he don't know how things should be done.
May white loaves and fat fishes fill his and your dishes!
May your new Magazine be as fresh as your books!
Good fellows all give you their hearty good wishes,—
None more, my dear Y—, than
Your friend,
SHIRLEY BROOKS.