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Chronicles of the Cape Fear Rwer

ANTHONY MILAN’S LAUNCH.

Ye who pretend to disbelieve
In fixed degrees of fate,

Give, I beseech you, listening ear
To what I now relate.

It is about the launching of
A stately ship I tell,

And of a fearful accident
That then and there befell

To one well known to all in town,

A man of portly size,
Who carries watch seals in his fob

And glasses in his eyes.

He holds a high position from
His Majesty Britannic,

And claims to be a member
Of the breed aristocratic.

He looks with sovereign contempt
On those whose daily toil
Brings out in rich abundance
The products of the soil.

He does not care a pin for him
Who weareth not fine clothes,

And he uses linen cambric
With which to wipe his nose.

He has no need for comb or brush,
For his cheeks are rosy red,

And a microscopic lens can find
No hair upon his head.

His boots are always polished bright,
His beaver sleek as silk,

His ruffled shirt is clean and white
As a bowl of new-skimmed milk.

But to our fate—the morning sun
Shone bright upon that day,

When all our people through the streets

Most gaily took their way

Down to the docks, where on the stocks

The gallant ship was seen,
Decked out in brilliant colors
Of blue and red and green.

A monstrous crowd was gathered there,

In feverish excitement,
To see the ship glide off the ways

Into the watery element.

Interesting Memories

The British consul with his glass
Stuck in his nether eye,

Was there in force, for could the ship
Be launched, and he not by?

She starts, she’s off, a shout went up
In one tumultuous roar,

That rolled o’er Eagles’ Island and
Was heard on Brunswick shore.

Full royally the ship slid down
Towards the foaming tide,

While cheer on cheer from every lip
Went up on every side.

She passed along towards the stream,
Majestically grand—

When suddenly she stopped. Alas!
She grounded in the sand.

And there she would have always stuck
And never more have stirred,

Had not the scene I now relate
Most happily occurred.

Just at that moment when she stopped,
With many a shake and shiver,

The pompous British consul slipped
And tumbled in the river.

The Cape Fear rose three feet or more
As Anthony went under,

The waves they beat upon the shore
In peals of living thunder.

The ship was lifted from the sand,
And like the lightning’s gleam,
She glided out into the deep,
And floated in the stream.

“All honor then to Anthony!”
Was heard on every side.

And should we build another ship
And scant should be the tide,

May he be there, and gently drop
His carcass in the sea;

That ship will float, it matters not
How low the tide may be.