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George Gordon Byron - Lines On Mr. Hodgson Written On Board The Lisbon Packet
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Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, 
        Our embargo`s off at last;
    Favourable breezes blowing
        Bend the canvass o`er the mast.
    From aloft the signal`s streaming,
        Hark! the farewell gun is fir`d;
    Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
        Tell us that our time`s expir`d.
           Here`s a rascal
          Come to task all,
       Prying from the custom-house;
          Trunks unpacking
          Cases cracking,
       Not a corner for a mouse
   `Scapes unsearch`d 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 genial noise and racket,
   Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

   Now we`ve reach`d her, lo! the captain,
       Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
   Passengers their berths are clapt in,
       Some to grumble, some to spew.
   "Hey day! call you that a cabin?
       Why `t is 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?
       Stretch`d 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."

   Now at length we`re off for Turkey,
       Lord knows when we shall come back!
   Breezes foul and tempests murky
       May unship us in a crack.
   But, since life at most a jest is,
       As philosophers  allow,
   Still to laugh by far the best is,
       Then laugh on—as I do now.
          Laugh at all things,
          Great and small things,
       Sick or well, at sea or shore;
          While we`re quaffing,
          Let`s have laughing--
       Who the devil cares for more?--
   Some good wine! and who would lack it,
   Ev`n on board the Lisbon Packet?

 
Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.
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