THE SMUGGLER KING.
(BY ELIZA COOK. )
There's a brave little bark stealing out in the dark,
From her nest in the bristling bay ; The fresh breeze meets her dingy sheets,
And swiftly she darts away ; She never must run in the eyes of the sun,
But along with the owl take wing, She must keep her flight for the moonlight night,
For she carries the Smuggler King.
A monarch is he as proud as can be, Of a strong and mighty band,
The bullet and blast may go whistling past, But he quails neither heart nor hand.
He lives and dies with his fearful prize, Like a hunted wolf he'll spring,
With trigger and dirk, to the deadliest work, And fight like a Smuggler King.
Back from the wave, to his home in the cave, In the sheen of the torches' glare ;
He reigns the lord of a freebooter's board, And never was costlier fare.
Right firm and true were the hearts of the crew, There's faith in the shouts that ring,
As they stave the cask, and drain the 'flask, And drink to the Smuggler King.
PROFITS ON SMUGGLING.
It may be wondered at now, that smuggling should have been so extensively carried on and at such risk and danger. Should the question be asked, " Why wait ?" the answer would be " Profit !" And for " what will man not do ? To show the profit connected -
