XXII. THAT OF THE POET AND THE BUCCANEERS.

It does not fall to every man

To be a minor poet,

But Inksby-Slingem he was one,

And wished the world to know it.

In almost every magazine

His dainty verses might be seen.

He'd take a piece of paper—blank,

With nothing writ upon it—

And soon a triolet 'twould be

A ballade, or a sonnet.

Pantoums,—in fact, whate'er you please,

This poet wrote, with greatest ease.

By dozens he'd turn poems out,

To Editors he'd bring 'em,

Till, quite a household word became

The name of Inksby-Slingem.

A mild exterior had he,

With dove-like personality.

His hair was dark and lank and long,

His necktie large and floppy

(Vide his portrait in the sketch

"A-smelling of a Poppy"),

And unto this young man befell

The strange adventure I'll now tell.

He took a summer holiday

Aboard the good ship "Goschen,"

Which foundered, causing all but he

To perish, in the ocean,

And many days within a boat

Did Inksby-Slingem sadly float—

Yes, many days, until with joy

He saw a ship appearing;

A skull and crossbones flag it bore,

And towards him it was steering.

"This rakish-looking craft," thought he,

"I fear a pirate ship must be."

It was. Manned by a buccaneer.

And, from the very first, he

Could see the crew were wicked men,

All scowling and bloodthirsty;

Indeed, he trembled for his neck

When hoisted to their upper deck.

Indelicate the way, at least,

That he was treated—very.

They turned his pockets inside-out;

They stole his Waterbury;

His scarf-pin, and his golden rings,

His coat and—er—his other things.

Then, they ransacked his carpet-bag,

To add to his distresses,

And tumbled all his papers out,

His poems, and MSS.'s.

He threw himself upon his knees,

And cried: "I pray you, spare me these!"

"These? What are these?" the Pirate cried.

"I've not the slightest notion."

He read a verse or two—and then

Seemed filled with strange emotion.

He read some more; he heaved a sigh;

A briny tear fell from his eye.

"Dear, dear!" he sniffed, "how touching is

This poem 'To a Brother!'

It makes me think of childhood's days,

My old home, and my mother."

He read another poem through,

And passed it to his wondering crew.

They read it, and all—all but two—

Their eyes were soon a-piping;

It was a most affecting sight

To see those pirates wiping

Their eyes and noses in their griefs

On many-coloured handkerchiefs,

* * *

To make a lengthy story short,

The gentle poet's verses

Quite won those men from wicked ways,

From piratings, and curses;

And all of them, so I've heard tell,

Became quite, quite respectable.

All—all but two, and one of them

Than e'er before much worse is

For he is now a publisher,

And "pirates" Slingem's verses;

The other drives a "pirate" 'bus,

Continuing—alas!—to "cuss."