MODERN SIRENS.

TWAS indafond kind,

TWAS in the good ship Ravensworth,

Who took the pains to give me birth,
Was 'cabined and confined.'

And I was 'cribbed' upon the wave,
A puling little stranger,

And nursed, where scattered waters rave,'
Upon the lap of danger.

The date was well, I'm not on oath,

I still am youthful, rather

I'll tell the month, and by my troth,

Will not be questioned farther.

'Twas when the year was ripening fastStill faintly I remember

My tears, abaft the mizen-mast,

First fell in fair September.

The latitude was very low,

But that's no shame on me;

'Twas fifteen, north-the glass, I know,
Stood high-at ninety-three.
A line that girdled half the earth,
The longitude would measure;
Thus to be born, in such a berth,
Was sadly taking pleasure.
However, that's all over-quite;
A native of the seas,

I have no birthplace, so I write
My parish in degrees.

I sought it once, five years ago,
That spot in the Pacific,

But knew it not-ah, me! the blow

Was perfectly terrific.

The skies were very different then,

The waves were not the same

It seems I must belong to men,
Because I have a name;
Yet oft I sadly ruminate,
Over my glass of grog,
If I am not a freak of fate,
Or some one else incog.
And oft I rack my heart forlorn,

In hurricane or squall:

'If I at no set place was born,

Ah! was I born at all?'

But that is neither here nor there

I soon began to frisk it,

And, ere had passed a fortnight clear,
Was weaned on junk and biscuit.
But all this time the wind had failed,
And failed our onward motion;

The sun and stars were all that sailed
Above the sluggish ocean.

The listless waters heaved and rolled,
But lacked the will to go,

Till many a tedious day was told,
Slower and yet more slow.

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