THE NAVY OF OLD ENGLAND.

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 4, Issue 182, 15 March 1860, Page 4

THE NAVY OF OLD ENGLAND.

Iu Number 2, of a new, cheap, and popular reissue of “ Tales from Rlackwood,” now publishing in Zondon, and which we believe are procurable in Auckland, will be found the following lines, which originally appeared in the Magazine for September, which are so admirably expressive of the feelings: of all true Englishmen, and so worthy of perusal by our readers*: that we reprint them here: —

“ Woe to us when wc lose the watery wall!” If e’er that dreadful, hour should come —but God avert the day ! When England’s, glorious flag must bend, and yield old Ocean’s sway; When foreign ships shall o’er that deep, where she is empress, lord ; IPhen the cross of red from bowtsprit head is hewn by foreign sword ; When foreign foot her quarter deck with proud stride treads along ; When her peaceful ships meet haughty check from hail of foreign tongue ; —- One prayer, one only prayer is mine—that, e’er is seen that sight, Er’e there be warning of that woe, I nmy be whelmed in night!

If ever other prince than ours wield sceptre o’er that main, Where Howard, Drake, and Frobisher, the Armada smote of Spain; Where Blake, in Cromwell’s iron sway,, swept tempest like the seas, From North to South, from East to West, resistless as the breeze; Where Bussel bent great Louis’ power, which bent before to none, ! I And crushed his arm of naval strength, and dimmed liis Rising Sun— One prayer, one only prayer is mine-—that e’er ts seen that sight, Er’e, there be warning of that woe, I may be whelmed in night!

If ever other keel than ours triumphant plough that brine, Where 7?odney met the Count de Grasse, and broke the Frenchman’s line, Where Horne, upon the first of June, met the Jacobin’s in fight, And with Old England’s' loud huzzas broke down their godless might; Where Jervis at St. Vincent’s felled the Spaniard’s lofty tears,

Jf here Duncan won at Camperdown, and Exmouth at Algiers— One prayer, one only prayer is mine—that, er’e is seen that sight, Er’e there be warning of that woe, 1 may be whelmed in night! But oh! what agony it were, when we should think on thee, The flour of all the Admirals that ever trod the sea! I shall not name thy honoured name—but of the white clifled Isle Which reared the Lion of the deep, the Ilero of the Nile, 7/im who, ’ neath Copenhagen's self, o’crtlirew the faithless Dane, Who died at glorious Trafalgar, o’e vanquished France and Spain, Should yield her power, one prayer is mine—that, er’e is seen that sight, Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelmed in night!

The Lady and iier Maid.— -The Salut Public of Lyons saysA young widow residing in this city lately took into her service a girl who had excellent testimonials. Two days ago, as the lady was sitting in the drawing-room, the girl entered, carrying under her arm like a bundle of linen her mistress’s little daughter, about three years old, with the head foremost, and proceeded deliberately to open one of the windows. The lady, astonished at her manner, asked her what she was going to do with the child, to which the servant with the greatest, coolness, said that she was going to throw it, o.nt of the window. On this the mother jumped up in alarm and rushed forward to prevent her, b,ut the servant being the stronger, succeeded in opening the window, and would have, accomplished, her purpose had not the widow in a moment of desperation seized the gir’s hand with her teeth, and compelled her to relinquish her hold. The child was, thus saved, but the poor mother has been ever since seriously ill. The girl has been placed in a lunatic asylum.”

Paris has gone mad over “ Rifled-cannon.” Charivari, gives its readers two drawings, illustrative of the prodigious rate at which military science is advancing. The first drawing slio.jys a squadron of dragoons charging a battery of rifled-camiou, upon a gigantic steam-engine,. The second drawing represents’the, darling rifled-cannori. An artilleryman bafi'just fired it. A stranger asks if, the ball hit the mark. 'Die artillery mao replies that lie will know the day after to-morrow—-uhc-butt is too, far,elf-to hoar sooner.

A Poet in Trouble.— The following is a report of a scene which oceiired in the mayor’s office, Clonmel. A man named Alfred Sheill was brought up, charged by Sub-constable Maguire with being drunk, and .collecting, a crowd in the bublic ’'Street,. He lafde aside a hat that, like himself, was considerably the worse, of the wear; his.garments, were ragged, but he folded his arms majesticajly.—Mayor : Now you'hear-what the policeman- has sworn. Have you anything to say to the charge? —Prisoner : Yes, I hear please your .worship, what this man has sworn ; hut I am before you forsaken forlorn. My years I assureyou, are nearly.three score, but if pardon- just now, I’ll, offend you no more.—Major :. Oh !■ I see you are a poet. —Prisoner : I am a man who has suffered the world’s hard knock’s. My living consists in a very small box-—a

box which I.,carry beneath my left arm ; it puts rags on my back, and keeps my stomach, warm—Mayor ? That’s all very well, but yom know 1 cannot suffer you to obstruct the passage of the streets,, or be at large when intoxicated.—. Prisoner: We oft put in our mouths what bemuddles our brains, and to-day please your worship, amid the great rain, P humbly confess that I did take a drop, and: perhaps on the streets much too long I didi stop. But forgive me, I pray, man of power. and love i in pity ope. wide gentle Mercy’ssweet door. I’m sorry Iv’e transgressed, ami now I have done, ah! shut me not out from the light of the sun.-—Mayor: Are we to understand that this is the lay of the last minstrel ?—Prisoner: Good gentleman, pray ye for me interceed ; I’m hungry, for all day I missed of my feed. Allow me. to say that the air of your cell agreed with my system: anything but wefl. I!m a. Briton by birth, and I’d have you to know that I once was well, off, though' I’m now rather low. Restore ipe to freedom !—hut give me relief from my bonds,, and I’ll bless you, oh! most worthy chief. If you fine me, it -may be supposed very fine,, but you never shall handle one silver of mine. ’Cause why, I’ve not got one; my person, pray try. So fining, you see, will be all in my eye.—Mayor r lPell, really, I cannot send to prison one who pleads his caiise so eloquently. 2’lie constable tellsme you came quiety, so you are discharged ; • but mind, don't come here again.—Most potent I thank you. Oh ! long-may you rule.. I’ll frankly confess. thatT have been a fool;. but never, again will I ever offend ; so my path to my lodging directly I’ll bend. iVTo more I’ll be shipwrecked .on, whiskey’s sharp rocks;

but, magistrate, tell ’em to give me my box. —• Mayor: Certainly.—Prisoner : Gramercy, I. your worship. And now fare thee well. where to all people your: kindness I’ll:tell. Good gentlemen all, I will bid you good nignt with your leave, gentle sir, I’ll now vanish from sight.—Here the prisoner make a low bow, and, grasping his box* vanished. I’lia above account of the case presents but a feeble outline of the reality, and of the rhyming of the “ poet in trouble,” who, for some twenty minutes, kept the court and all present in roars of laughter. —London Daily Telegraph.