Lines to Mr. Hodgson. Written on Board the Lisbon Packet

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the Custom-house; Trunks unpacking Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse Scapes unsearched amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.…