The
poet Lord Byron describes a departure from Falmouth rather well in his poem
'Lines on Mr. Hodgson Written on Board the Lisbon Packet'
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvass o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's
streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is
fir'd;
Women screeching, tars
blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's
expir'd.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the
racket,
Ere we sail on board the
Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their
mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is
lowering,
We're impatient--push from
shore.
"Have a care! that case holds
liquor--
Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh
Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be
sicker,
Ere you've been an hour on
board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants,
Jacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax.--
Such the genial noise and
racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we've reach'd her, lo! the
captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the
crew;
Passengers their berths are
clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Hey day! call you that a
cabin?
Why 't is hardly three feet
square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab
in--
Who the deuce can harbour
there?"
"Who, sir? plenty--
Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill."
"Did they? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still:
Then I'd 'scape the heat and
racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon
Packet."
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where
are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like
logs--
Bear a hand, you jolly tar,
you!
Here's a rope's end for the
dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful
curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his
verses,
Vomits forth--and damns our
souls.
"Here's a stanza
On Braganza--
Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a
cup
Of warm water--"
"What's the matter?"
"Zounds! my liver's coming up;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."
Now at length we're off for
Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come
back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest
is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best
is,
Then laugh on--as I do now.
Laugh at all things,
Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,
Let's have laughing--
Who the devil cares for more?--
Some good wine! and who would
lack it,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon
Packet?
Lord George Gordon Byron (22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824)