I woodn't have moved that day for twenty thousand masters--no, not for the Empror of Russia or the Pop of Room.
Well, to cut this sad subjik short, many and many a voyitch have I sins had upon what Shakspur calls the "wasty dip," but never such a retched one as that from Dover to Balong, in the year Anna Domino 1818.

Steemers were scarce in those days; and our journey was made in a smack.

At last, when I was in a stage of despare and exostion, as reely to phansy myself at Death's doar, we got to the end of our journey.

Late in the evening we hailed the Gaelic shoars, and hankered in the arbor of Balong sir-mare.
It was the entrans of Parrowdice to me and master: and as we entered the calm water, and saw the comfrabble lights gleaming in the houses, and felt the roal of the vessel degreasing, never was two mortials gladder, I warrant, than we were.

At length our capting drew up at the key, and our journey was down.