Moore's Notices of Lord Byron. 



From aloft the signal's streaming 

 Hark ! the farewell-gun is fired ; 

 Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 

 Tell us that our time's expired. 

 There's a rascal, 

 Come to task all 

 Prying from the Custom-house ! 

 Trunks unpacking, 

 Cases cracking; 

 Not a corner for a mouse 

 'Scapes unsearched amid the racket, 

 Ere we sail on board The Packet .' 



Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 



And all hands must ply the oar ; 

 Baggage from the quay is lowering ; 

 We're impatient push from shore. 

 " Have a care ! that case holds liquor." 



" Stop the boat ! I'm sick oh, Lord !" 

 " Sick, Ma'am ? damme ! you'll be sicker 

 Ere you've been an hour on board." 

 Thus are screaming 

 Men and women, 

 Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks ; 

 Here entangling, 

 All are wrangling, 

 Stuck together close as wax. 

 Such the general noise and racket, 

 Ere we reach The Lisbon Packet ! 



Now we've reached her ! Lo ! the captain, 



Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 

 Passengers their berths are clapt in, 



Some to grumble, some to spew. 

 " Heyday ! call you that a cabin ? 



Why, 'tis hardly three feet square 

 Not enough to stow Queen Mab in ! 

 Who the deuce can harbour there ?" 

 "Who, Sir? plenty; 

 Nobles twenty 



Did at once my vessel fill." 

 " Did they ? Jesus ! 

 How you squeeze us ! 

 Would to God they did so still ! 

 Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 

 Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet ! 



Fletcher, Murray, Bob, where are you ? 



Stretched along the deck like logs ! 

 Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 



Here's a rope's-end for the dogs. 

 Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses, 



As the hatchway down he rolls; 

 Now his breakfast, now his verses, 

 Vomits forth, and damns our souls. 

 Here's a stanza 

 On Braganza. 



" Help !" " A couplet?"" No, a cup 

 Of warm water." 

 " What's the matter?" 

 '* Zounds ! my liver's coming up : 

 I shall not survive the racket 

 Of this brutal Lisbon Packet !" 



