I Nore, The. THE BOY AT THE NORE. SAY, little Boy at the Nore, Do you come from the small Isle of Man ? Why, your history a mystery must be, Come tell us as much as you can, Little Boy at the Nore! You live, it seems, wholly on water, Which your Gambier calls living in clover; But how comes it, if that is the case, You 're eternally half-seas over, Little Boy at the Nore? While you ride, while you dance, while you float, – Never mind your imperfect orthography; But give us, as well as you can, Your watery autobiography, Little Boy at the Nore! BOY AT THE NORE, LOQUITUR. I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore, I'm the Boy at the Nore! I lives with my toes to the flounders, To catch the first glimpse of my lights, I'm the Boy at the Nore. I never gets cold in the head, So my life on salt water is sweet; I think I owes much of my health To being well used to wet feet As the Boy at the Nore. There's one thing, I'm never in debt: Nay! I liquidates more than I oughter; Is the Boy at the Nore. I've seen a good deal of distress, Lots of Breakers in Ocean's Gazette; They should do as I do, - rise o'er all; Ay, a good floating capital get, Like the Boy at the Nore! I'm a'ter the sailor's own heart, And cheers him, in deep water rolling; And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, Is the Boy at the Nore! Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off For a week to make love to my wheedles; If the tight little Boy at the Nore Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles, They thinks little of sizes on water, On big waves the tiny one skulks, While the river has Men of War on it, Yes, the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks, And the Boy's at the Nore! But I've done, for the water is heaving Round my body, as though it would sink it! And I've been so long pitching and tossing, That sea-sick you'd hardly now think it Is the Boy at the Nore! Thomas Hood. Norham Castle. NORHAM CASTLE. AY set on Norham's castled steep, DAY And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, The battled towers, the donjon keep, In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky, St. George's banner, broad and gay, Less bright, and less, was flung; The scouts had parted on their search, Above the gloomy portal arch, Sir Walter Scott. Nottingham. CLIFTON GROVE. O! in the west fast fades the lingering light, And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke; No more, hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head, The crows, assembling seek their wind-rocked bed. Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight, |