Chapter XXI: Canto THE SECOND: Matrimony (7)

That Dorilis thus, on her lap as he lies, Should kiss little Pompey, excites no surprise; But the lapdog whom thus she keeps fondling and praising, Licks her face in return--that I own is amazing!

TO A SLOW WALKER AND QUICK EATER.

So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat, You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet.

ON TWO BEAUTIFUL ONE-EYED SISTERS

Give up one eye, and make your sister's two, Venus she then would be, and Cupid you.

THE PER-CONTRA, OR MATRIMONIAL BALANCE

How strange, a deaf wife to prefer! True, but she's also dumb, good sir.

EPIGRAMS S. T. COLERIDGE.

AN EXPECTORATION, Or Spienetic Extempore, on my joyful departure from the city of Cologne.

As I am rhymer, And now, at least, a merry one, Mr. Mum's Eudesheimer, And the church of St. Geryon, Are the two things alone, That deserve to be known, In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne.

EXPECTORATION THE SECOND.

In Clon, the town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well defined and separate stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne. But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

TO A LADY, Offended by a sportive observation that women have no souls.

Nay, dearest Anna, why so grave? I said you had no soul,'tis true, For what you ARE you can not HAVE; 'Tis _I_ that have one since I first had you.

AVARO. [STOLEN FROM LESSING.]

There comes from old Avaro's grave A deadly stench--why sure they have Immured his SOUL within his grave.

BEELZEBUB AND JOB.

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health, He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, oxen, horses, cows-- But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore Twofold all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!

SENTIMENTAL.

The rose that blushes like the morn,
Bedecks the valleys low:
And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,
My Angelina's toe.

But on the rose there grows a thorn,
That breeds disastrous woe:
And so dost thou, remorseless corn,
On Angelina's toe.

AN ETERNAL POEM.

Your poem must ETERNAL be, Dear sir, it can not fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both head and tail.

BAD POETS.

Swans sing before they die--'t were no bad thing; Did certain persons die before they sing.

TO MR. ALEXANDRE, THE VENTRILOQUIST.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Of yore, in Old England, it was not thought good, To carry two visages under one hood: What should folks say to YOU? who have faces so plenty, That from under one hood you last night showed us twenty! Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth, Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth? Man, woman or child--a dog or a mouse? Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? Each live thing did I ask?--each dead implement too, A workshop in your person--saw, chisel, and screw! Above all, are you one individual?--I know You must be, at least, Alexandre and Co. But I think you're a troop, an assemblage, a mob, And that I, as the sheriff, should take up the job: And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse!

THE SWALLOWS. R. BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. The Prince of Wales came into Brooke's one day, and complained of cold, but after drinking three glasses of brandy and water, said he felt comfortable.

The prince came in and said't was cold,
Then put to his head the rummer,
Till SWALLOW after SWALLOW came,
When he pronounced it summer.

FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
ERSKINE

The French have taste in all they do, Which we are quite without; For Nature, that to them gave GOUT To us gave only gout.

EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS MOORE.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson LOW (By name, and ah! by nature so), As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down-these little men did-- And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!--upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches; And how some VERY little things, That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches.

Alas! alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!-- Though different, too, these persecutions For Gulliver, THERE, took the nap, While, HERE, the NAP, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to NED, with that grim face of his,
"Why refuse us the VETO, dear Catholic NEDDY?"--
"Because, sir" said NED, looking full in his phiz,
"You're FORBIDDING enough, in all conscience, already!"

TO MISS -----

With woman's form and woman's tricks So much of man you seem to mix, One knows not where to take you; I pray you, if 'tis not too far, Go, ask of Nature WHICH you are, Or what she meant to make you.

Yet stay--you need not take the pains With neither beauty, youth, nor brains, For man or maid's desiring: Pert as female, fool as male, As boy too green, as girl too stale The thing's not worth inquiring!

TO -----

Die when you will, you need not wear At heaven's court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given; Keep but the lovely looks we see The voice we hear and you will be An angel READY-MADE for heaven!

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

Between Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

QUEST.-Why is a Pump like Viscount CASTLEREAGH? ANSW.-Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about,
There's none like Jack--he's everywhere:
At church--park--auction--dinner--rout--
Go when and where you will, he's there.
Try the West End, he's at your back--
Meets you, like Eurus, in the East--
You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?"
One hundred times a-day, at least.
A friend of his one evening said,
As home he took his pensive way,
"Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead--
I've seen him but three times to-day!"

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."-- "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

THE SURPRISE.

Doloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- "What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow? Because I CAN NOT love thee MORE--than NOW!"

ON ----.

Like a snuffers, this loving old dame,
By a destiny grievous enough,
Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame,
Hath never more than the snuff.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no ONE Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once to ALL THE NINE!

ON A TUET-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd
A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside his place the God of Wit,
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a STAR he'd quit,
And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,
He took, of course, to peers' relations;
And, rather than not sport a lord,
Put up with even the last creations.

Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em
With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call,
And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum
Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For, rest his soul, he'd rather be
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.

THE KISS.

Give me, my love, that billing kiss
I taught you one delicious night,
When, turning epicures in bliss,
We tried inventions of delight.

Come, gently steal my lips along,
And let your lips in murmurs move
Ah, no!--again--that kiss was wrong
How can you be so dull, my love?

"Cease, cease!" the blushing girl replied
And in her milky arms she caught me
"How can you thus your pupil chide;
You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!"

EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET--(ROBERT SOUTHEY.)

Beneath these poppies buried deep, The bones of Bob the bard lie hid; Peace to his manes; and may he sleep As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering, Bob went without a hitch or fall, Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF., He took to praising George the Third: And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter, Like Donellan of bad renown, Poisoning us all with laurel-water.

And yet at times some awkward qualms he Felt about leaving honor's track; And though he's got a butt of Malmsey, It may not save him from a sack.

Death, weary of so dull a writer, Put to his works a FINIS thus. Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter Than did his quartos upon us!

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK, Called the "Book of Follies."

This journal of folly's an emblem of me; But what book shall we find emblematic of thee? Oh! shall we not say thou art LOVE'S DUODECIMO? None can be prettier, few can be less, you know. Such a volume in SHEETS were a volume of charms; Or if BOUND, it should only be BOUND IN OUR ARMS!

THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN.

They tell us that Woman was made of a rib
Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side;
But the Rabbins swear to you that this is a fib,
And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied.

For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind,
With a tail like a monkey, full a yard and a span;
And when Nature cut off this appendage behind,
Why--then woman was made of the tail of the man.

If such is the tie between women and men,
The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf;
For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again,
And makes a most damnable ape of himself!

Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail,
Every husband remembers the original plan,
And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail,
Why--he leaves her behind him as much as he can.

ANACREONTIQUE.

Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower; And while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think--in WOE the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine. Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the LUXURY OF WOE!

SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy --- up at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT.
REV. SAMUEL WESLEY.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust. The poet's fate is here in emblem shown-- He ask'd for BREAD, and he received a STONE.

ON THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF THE WHIG ASSOCIATES OP THE PRINCE REGENT, AT NOT OBTAINING OFFICE. CHARLES LAMB.

Ye politicians, tell me, pray, Why thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the wig away, And left the HAIR APPARENT.

TO PROFESSOR AIREY, On his marrying a beautiful woman. SIDNEY SMITH

Airey alone has gained that double prize, Which forced musicians to divide the crown; His works have raised a mortal to the skies, His marriage-vows have drawn a mortal down.

ON LORD DUDLEY AND WARD.
SAMUEL ROGERS

"They say Ward has no heart, but I deny it; He has a heart--and gets his speeches by it."

EPIGRAMS OF LORD BYRON.

TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"

Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt,
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why should we weep, I can't find out,
Unless for THEE we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more,
And much, alas! I think he needs it--
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

The rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May ONCE be read--but never after;
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.

But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain?
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us you'll read them o'er again.

WINDSOR POETICS.

On the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I, in the royal vault at Windsor.

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptered thing-- It moves, it reigns--in all but name, a king; Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, --In him the double tyrant starts to life; Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain, Each royal vampyre wakes to life again. Ah! what can tombs avail, since these disgorge The blood and dust of both to mold a George?

ON A CARRIER WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS.

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more--so was carried at last; For the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off--so he's now carriON.

EPIGRAMS OF BARHAM.

ON THE WINDOWS OF KING'S COLLEGE REMAINING BOARDED.

Loquitur Discipulus Esuriens.

Professors, in your plan there seems
A something not quite right:
'Tis queer to cherish learning's beams
By shutting out the light.

While thus we see your windows block'd,
If nobody complains;
Yet everybody must be shock'd,
To see you don't take pains.

And tell me why should bodily
Succumb to mental meat?
Or why should Pi-ra, Beta Pi-ra, Pi-c,
Be all the pie we eat?

No HELLUO LIBRORUM I,
No literary glutton,
Would veal with Virgil like to try,
With metaphysics, mutton.

Leave us no longer in the lurch,
With Romans, Greeks, and Hindoos:
But give us beef instead of birch,
And BOARD US--not your windows.

NEW-MADE HONOR. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

A friend I met, some half hour since--
"GOOD-MORROW JACK!" quoth I;
The new-made Knight, like any Prince,
Frown'd, nodded, and pass'd by;
When up came Jem--"Sir John, your slave!"
"Ah, James; we dine at eight--
Fail not--(low bows the supple knave)
Don't make my lady wait."
The king can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner,
He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.

EHEU FUGACES.

What Horace says is, Eheu fugaces Anni labunter, Postume, Postume! Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me I Now, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis, and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing, I murmur, "O mihi praeteritos !"

ANONYMOUS EPIGRAMS

ON A PALE LADY WITH A RED-NOSED HUSBAND.

Whence comes it that, in Clara's face, The lily only has its place? Is it because the absent rose Has gone to paint her husband's nose?

UPON POPE'S TRANSLATION OF HOMER

So much, dear Pope, thy English Homer charms, As pity melts us, or as passion warms, That after ages will with wonder seek Who 'twas translated Homer into Greek.

RECIPE FOR A MODERN BONNET.

Two scraps of foundation, some fragments of lace, A shower of French rose-buds to droop o'er the face; Fine ribbons and feathers, with crage and illusions, Then mix and DErange them in graceful confusion; Inveigle some fairy, out roaming for pleasure, And beg the slight favor of taking her measure, The length and the breadth of her dear little pate, And hasten a miniature frame to create; Then pour, as above, the bright mixture upon it, And lo! you possess "such a love of a bonnet!"

MY WIFE AND I

As my wife and I, at the window one day,
Stood watching a man with a monkey,
A cart came by, with a "broth of a boy,"
Who was driving a stout little donkey.
To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke,
"There's a relation of yours in that carriage."
To which she replied, as the donkey she spied,
"Ah, yes, a relation--BY MARRIAGE!"

ON TWO GENTLEMEN,

One of whom, O'Connell, delayed a duel on the plea of his wife's illness; the other declined on account of the illness of his daughter.

Some men, with a horror of slaughter, Improve on the Scripture command, And honor their wife and their daughter, That their days may be long in the land.

WELLINGTON'S NOSE.

"Pray, why does the great Captain's nose
Resemble Venice?" Duncomb cries.
"Why," quoth Sam Rogers, "I suppose.
Because it has a bridge of size (sighs)."

THE SMOKER.

All dainty meats I do defy
Which feed men fat as swine,
He is a frugal man indeed
That on a leaf can dine!
He needs no napkin for his hands,
His finger's ends to wipe,
That keeps his kitchen in a box,
And roast meat in his pipe!

AN ESSAY ON THE UNDERSTANDING.

"Harry, I can not think," says Dick, "What makes my ANKLES grow so thick:" "You do not recollect," says Harry, "How great a CALF they have to carry."

TO A LIVING AUTHOR.

Your comedy I've read, my friend,
And like the half you pilfer'd best;
But sure the piece you yet may mend:
Take courage, man! and steal the rest.

EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS HOOD.

ON THE ART-UNIONS.

That picture-raffles will conduce to nourish Design, or cause good coloring to flourish, Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing, But surely lotteries encourage drawing.

THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY.

A mechanic his labor will often discard
If the rate of his pay he dislikes:
But a clock--and its case is uncommonly hard--
Will continue to work though it STRIKES.

EPIGRAMS BY W. SAVAGE LANDOR

ON OBSERVING A VULGAR NAME ON THE PLINTH OF AN ANCIENT STATUE.

Barbarians must we always be?
Wild hunters in pursuit of fame?
Must there be nowhere stone or tree
Ungashed with some ignoble name.
O Venus! in thy Tuscan dome
May every god watch over thee!
Apollo I bend thy bow o'er Rome,
And guard thy sister's chastity.
Let Britons paint their bodies blue
As formerly, but touch not you.

LYING IN STATE.

Now from the chamber all are gone Who gazed and wept o'er Wellington; Derby and Dis do all they can To emulate so great a man: If neither can be quite so great, Resolved is each to LIE IN STATE.

EPIGRAMS FROM PUNCH.

THE CAUSE.

Lisette has lost her wanton wiles--
What secret care consumes her youth,
And circumscribes her smiles?--
A SPECK ON A FRONT TOOTH?

IRISH PARTICULAR.

Shiel's oratory's like bottled Dublin stout-- For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.

ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

A poor man went to hang himself,
But treasure chanced to find:
He pocketed the miser's pelf
And left the rope behind.

His money gone, the miser hung
Himself in sheer despair:
Thus each the other's wants supplied,
And that was surely fair.

STICKY.

I'm going to seal a letter, Dick,
Some WAX pray give to me.
I have not got a SINGLE STICK,
Or WHACKS I'd give to thee.

THE POET FOILED.

To win the maid the poet tries, And sometimes writes to Julia's eye She likes a VERSE--but, cruel whim, She still appears A-VERSE to him.

BLACK AND WHITE

The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night, And boast that they are only blessed with light. Peel's politics to both sides so incline, His may be called the EQUINOCTIAL LINE.

INQUEST--NOT EXTRAORDINARY.

Great Bulwer's works fell on Miss Basbleu's head, And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead! A jury sat, and found the verdict plain-- She died of MILK and WATER ON THE BRAIN.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

Said Stiggins to his wife, one day,
"We've nothing left to eat;
If things go on in this queer way,
We shan't make BOTH ENDS MEET."

The dame replied, in words discreet,
"We're not so badly fed,
If we can make but ONE end MEAT,
And make the other BREAD."

ON SEEING AN EXECUTION.

One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop, To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop: "Alas!" cried one, as round in air he spun, "That miserable wretch's RACE IS RUN." "True," said the other, drily, "to his cost, The race is run--but, by a NECK 'tis lost."

A VOICE, AND NOTHING ELSE.

"I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks,"
Said a punster, perusing a trial:
"I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux,
He's been VAUX ET PRAETEREA NIHIL!"

THE AMENDE HONORABLE.

Quoth Will, "On that young servant-maid
My heart its life-string stakes."
"Quite safe!" cries Dick, "don't be afraid--
She pays for all she breaks."

THE CZAR.

CZAR NICHOLAS is so devout, they say, His majesty does nothing else than prey.

BAS BLEU.

Ma'amselle Bas Bleu, erudite virgin, With learned zeal is ever urging The love and reverence due From modern men to things antique, Egyptian, British, Roman, Greek, Relic of Gaul or Jew.

No wonder that, Ma'amselle, the love Due to antiquity to prove And urge is ever prone; She knows where'er there cease to be Admirers of Antiquity, She needs must lose her own!

TO A RICH YOUNG WIDOW.

I will not ask if thou canst touch
The tuneful ivory key?
Those silent notes of thine are such
As quite suffice for me.

I'll make no question if thy skill
The pencil comprehends,
Enough for me, love, if thou still
Canst draw thy dividends!

THE RAILWAY OP LIFE.

Short was the passage through this earthly vale,
By turnpike roads when mortals used to wend;
But now we travel by the way of rail,
As soon again we reach the journey's end.

A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM.

Which is of greater value, prythee, say,
The Bride or Bridegroom?--must the truth be told?
Alas, it must! The Bride is given away--
The Bridegroom's often regularly sold.

NUMBERS ALTERED.

The lounger must oft, as he walks through the streets, Be struck with the grace of some girl that he meets; So graceful behind in dress--ringlets--all that-- But one gaze at the front--what a horrid old cat! You then think of the notice you've seen on a door, Which informs you, of "70 late 24."

GRAMMAR FOR THE COURT OF BERLIN

His majesty you should not say of FRITZ, That king is neuter; so for HIS, use ITS.

THE EMPTY BOTTLE.
WILLIAM AYTOUN

Ah, liberty! how like thou art
To this large bottle lying here,
Which yesterday from foreign mart,
Came filled with potent English beer!

A touch of steel--a hand--a gush--
A pop that sounded far and near--
A wild emotion--liquid rush--
And I had drunk that English beer!

And what remains?--An empty shell!
A lifeless form both sad and queer,
A temple where no god doth dwell--
The simple memory of beer!

THE DEATH OF DOCTOR MORRISON.
BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

What's the news?--Why, they say Death has killed Dr. Morrison. The Pill-maker? Yes. Then Death will be sorry soon.

EPIGRAMS BY JOHN G. SAXE.

ON A RECENT CLASSIC CONTROVERSY.

Nay, marvel not to see these scholars fight,
In brave disdain of certain scath and scar;
'Tis but the genuine, old, Hellenic spite,--
"When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!"

ANOTHER.

Quoth David to Daniel--"Why is it these scholars
Abuse one another whenever they speak?"
Quoth Daniel to David--"it nat'rally follers
Folks come to hard words if they meddle with Greek!"

ON AN ILL-READ LAWYER.

An idle attorney besought a brother For "something to read--some novel or other, That was really fresh and new." "Take Chitty!" replied his legal friend, "There isn't a book that I could lend Would prove more 'novel' to you!"

ON AN UGLY PERSON SITTING FOR A DAGUERREOTYPE

Here Nature in her glass--the wanton elf-- Sits gravely making faces at herself; And while she scans each clumsy feature o'er, Repeats the blunders that she made before!

WOMAN'S WILL.

Men dying make their wills--but wives
Escape a work so sad;
Why should they make what all their lives
The gentle dames have had?

FAMILY QUARRELS.

"A fool," said Jeanette, "is a creature I hate!"
"But hating," quoth John, "is immoral;
Besides, my dear girl, it's a terrible fate
To be found in a family quarrel!"

A REVOLUTIONARY HERO.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad His slow artillery up the Concord road, A tale which grew in wonder year by year; As every time he told it, Joe drew near To the main fight, till faded and grown gray, The original scene to bolder tints gave way; Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick, And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop; Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight Had squared more nearly to his sense of right, And vanquished Perry, to complete the tale, Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail.

EPIGRAMS OF HALPIN

THE LAST RESORT.

A dramatist declared he had got So many people in his plot, That what to do with half he had Was like to drive him drama-mad! "The hero and the heroine Of course are married--very fine! But with the others, what to do Is more than I can tell--can you?" His friend replied--"'Tis hard to say, But yet I think there is a way. The married couple, thank their stars And half the 'others' take the cars, The other half you put on board An Erie steamboat--take my word, They'll never trouble you again!" The dramatist resumed his pen.

FEMININE ARITHMETIC.

LAURA.

On me he shall ne'er put a ring,
So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble--
For I was but eighteen in spring,
While his age exactly is double.

MAMMA

He's but in his thirty-sixth year,
Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty,
And should you refuse him, my dear,
May you die an old maid without pity!

LAURA

His figure, I grant you, will pass,
And at present he's young enough plenty;
But when I am sixty, alas!
Will not he be a hundred and twenty?

THE MUSHROOM HUNT.

In early days, ere Common Sense
And Genius had in anger parted,
They made to friendship some pretense,
Though each, Heaven knows! diversely hearted.
To hunt for mushrooms once they went,
Through nibbled sheepwalks straying onward,
Sense with his dull eyes earthward bent,
While Genius shot his glances sunward!
Away they go! On roll the hours,
And toward the west the day-god edges;
See! Genius holds a wreath of flowers,
Fresh culled from all the neighboring hedges!
Alas! ere eve their bright hues flit,
While Common Sense (whom I so doat on!)
Thanked God "that he had little wit,"
And drank his ketchup with his mutton.

JUPITER AMANS. DEDICATED TO VICTOR HUGO. LONDON LEADER

"Le petit" call not him who by one act Has turned old fable into modern fact Nap Louis courted Europe: Europe shied: Th' imperial purple was too newly dyed. "I'll have her though," thought he, "by rape or rapine; Jove nods sometimes, but catch a Nap a napping! And now I think of Jove, 't was Jove's own fix, And so I'll borrow one of Jove's own tricks: Old itching Palm I'll tickle with a joke, And he shall lend me England's decent cloak." 'Twas said and done, and his success was full; He won Europa with the guise of Bull!

THE ORATOR'S EPITAPH.
LORD BROUGHAM.

"Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes,
My fate a useful moral teaches;
The hole in which my body lies
Would not contain one-half my speeches."

ECCENTRIC AND NONDESCRIPT.

THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION. TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II. LEIGH HUNT.

I devise to end my days--in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me--the glass when I am shrinking. That the cherubim may cry--when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul--of this gentleman's way of thinking. A glass of wine amazingly--enlighteneth one's intervals; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar--that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns--have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us--in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath--a mold which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those--who never could write fasting; By a single little boy--I should be surpass'd in Writing so: I'd just as lief--be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath--a gift too, a dotation: I, when I make verses--do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine--that comes into the nation: It maketh sermons to astound--for edification.

Just as liquor floeth good--floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat--or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly--should I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat--I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me--prophetic animation, Unless when I have eat and drank--yea, ev'n to saturation, Then in my upper story--hath Bacchus domination And Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.

TONIS AD RESTO MARE.
ANONYMOUS

AIR--"Oh, Mary, heave a sigh for me."

O MARE aeva si forme;
Forme ure tonitru;
Iambicum as amandum,
Olet Hymen promptu;
Mihi is vetas an ne se,
As humano erebi;
Olet mecum marito te,
Or eta beta pi.

Alas, plano more meretrix,
Mi ardor vel uno;
Inferiam ure artis base,
Tolerat me urebo.
Ah me ve ara silicet,
Vi laudu vimin thus?
Hiatu as arandum sex--
Illuc Ionicus.

Heu sed heu vix en imago,
My missis mare sta;
O cantu redit in mihi
Hibernas arida?
A veri vafer heri si,
Mihi resolves indu:
Totius olet Hymen cum--
Accepta tonitru.

DIC.
DEAN SWIFT.

Dic, heris agro at, an da quar to fine ale, Fora ringat ure nos, an da stringat ure tale. [Footnote: Dick, here is a groat, a quart o' fine ale. For a ring at your nose, and a string at your tail.]

MOLL.
DEAN SWIFT.

Mollis abuti, Has an acuti, No lasso finis, Molli divinis. [Footnote: Moll is a beauty, Has an acute eye; No lass so fine is, Molly divine is.]

TO MY MISTRESS.
DEAN SWIFT.

O mi de armis tres, Imi na dis tres. Cantu disco ver Meas alo ver? [Footnote: O my dear mistress I am in a distress. Can't you discover Me as a lover?]

A LOVE SONG.
DEAN SWIFT.

Apud in is almi de si re, Mimis tres I ne ver re qui re, Alo veri findit a gestis, His miseri ne ver at restis. [Footnote: A pudding is all my desire, My mistress I never require; A lover I find it a jest is, His misery never at rest is.]

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN.

IN THE DORIC MANNER.
DEAN SWIFT.

Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? Echo. Try. Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express? Echo. Press. Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? Echo. Before. Shepherd. What most moves women when we them address? Echo. A dress. Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? Echo. A door. Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. Echo. Liar. Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? Echo. Buy her. Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear? Echo. Her deer. Shepherd. But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? Echo. Keep her under. Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier? Echo. Beer. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be kind? Echo. Be kind. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross? Echo. Be cross. Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? Echo. Wind. Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? Echo. Blows. Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her? Echo. Bang her. Shepherd. Is there no way to moderate her anger? Echo. Hang her. Shepherd. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. Echo. Guard her well.

TO MY NOSE.
ANONYMOUS.

Knows he that never took a pinch,
Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows?
Knows he the titillating joy
Which my nose knows?

Oh, nose! I am as fond of thee
As any mountain of its snows!
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride
A Roman knows!

ROGER AND DOLLY.
BLACKWOOD.

Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window--
Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump;
He begg'd for admittance--she answered him no--
Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump.
No, no, Roger, no--as you came you may go--
Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump.
O what is the reason, dear Dolly? he cried--
Humpaty, humpaty, hump--
That thus I'm cast off and unkindly denied?--
Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump--
Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here--
Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump--
Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir
Numpaty, numpaty, nump--
Wi' a disconsolate look his sad farewell he took--
Trumpaty, trumputy, trump--
And all in despair jump'd into a brook--
Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump--
His courage did cool in a filthy green pool--
Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump--
So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more--
Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump--
He did speedily find one more fat and more kind--
Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump--
But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid--
Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.

THE IRISHMAN.
BLACKWOOD.

I.

There was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man,
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman,
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild tremendous Irishman,
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

II.

His face was no ways beautiful,
For with small-pox 't was scarred across:
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost doubled a yard across.
O the lump of an Irishman,
The whiskey devouring Irishman--
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, rioting
Irishman.

III.

One of his eyes was bottle green,
And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear,
O, the great big Irishman,
The rattling, battling Irishman--
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an
Irishman.

IV.

He took so much of Lundy-foot,
That he used to snort and snuffle--O,
And in shape and size the fellow's neck
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
O, the horrible Irishman,
The thundering, blundering Irishman--
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.

V.

His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,
He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again,
The boozing, bruising Irishman,
The 'toxicated Irishman--
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

VI.

This was the lad the lady loved,
Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity,
O, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage Irishman--
The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered
I'm sure by this Irishman.

A _CAT_ALECTIC MONODY!
CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

A CAT I sing, of famous memory, Though CATachrestical my song may be; In a small garden CATacomb she lies, And CATaclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the CATacoustic song Swells with her virtues' CATalogue along; No CATaplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed CATaracts of tears. Once loud and strong her CATachist-like voice It dwindled to a CATcall's squeaking noise; Most CATegorical her virtues shone, By CATenation join'd each one to one;-- But a vile CATchpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like CATling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her CATerwauling pierced the heavy air, As CATaphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as CATerpillars drag away Their lengths, like CATtle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit KAT the Embodyment of this CATastrophe.

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES. JOHN BAY

My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,
Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For though as drunk as David's sow
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see
The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown,
But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to weep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;
Hearts sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears,
O were we join'd together!
My heart would be scot-free from cares
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter

As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds
Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as her needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:
Good Lord! how all men envied me!
She loved like any thing.

But false as hell, she, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her sex must do;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru!
Great as an Emperor should I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;
Let us like burs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die,
And wish me better sped;
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear
And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.

REMINISCENCES OP A SENTIMENTALIST.
THOMAS HOOD.

"My TABLES! MEAT it is, _I_ SET IT down!"--Hamlet

I think it was Spring--but not certain I am--
When my passion began first to work;
But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,
And the season was over for pork.

'T was at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase,
Yes--for Morris had asked me to dine--
And I thought I had never beheld such a face,
Or so noble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild
With sheer envy, to witness my luck;
How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled
As I afterward offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost,
Through three courses of dishes and meats;
Getting deeper in love--but my heart was quite lost
When it came to the trifle and sweets.

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,
To her parents I told my designs--
And then to herself I presented my hand,
With a very fine pottle of pines!

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,
And she did not object in the least;--
I can't tell the date--but we married I know
Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to ----, it certainly was the sea-side;
For the next, the most blessed of morns,
I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,
Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O, never may memory lose sight of that year,
But still hallow the time as it ought!
That season the "grass" was remarkably dear,
And the peas at a guinea a quart.

So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste,
A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,
So united in heart--so congenial in taste--
We were both of us partial to brawn!

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,
But then Death--I ne'er dreamt about that!
O, there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried
When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,
But the cause no physician could nab;
But something, it seemed like consumption, I fear--
It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,
Still her strength and her appetite pined;
She lost relish for what she had relished the most,
Even salmon she deeply declined!

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt,
While her form it grew wasted and thin;
But the last dying spark of existence went out.
As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men,
To indulge in a widower's moan;
Oh! I felt all the power of solitude then,
As I ate my first "natives" alone!

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks,
And with sorrowful crape on their hats,
O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folks
Were all crying--I think it was sprats!

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. THOMAS HOOD.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, "they're only pegs:
But there's as wooden members quite
As represent my legs!"

Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went up to pay his devours,
When he devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off!

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray
Is this your love so warm?
The love that loves a scarlet coat
Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once
For he was blithe and brave
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave!

"Before you had those timber toes,
Your love I did allow,
But then, you know, you stand upon
Another footing now!"

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!
For all your jeering speeches,
At duty's call I left my legs,
In Badajos's BREACHES!"

"Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you can not wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms!"

"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray!
I know why you refuse:--
Though I've no feet--some other man
Is standing in my shoes!

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
But now, a long farewell!
For you will be my death;--alas
You will not be my NELL!"

Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,
His heart so heavy got,
And life was such a burden grown,
It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did entwine,
And, for his second time in life,
Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs,
And, as his legs were off--of course,
He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead
As any nail in town--
For, though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out why he died--
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
With a STAKE in his inside!

NO!
THOMAS HOOD.

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon--
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no "t' other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
To traveling at all--no locomotion,
No inkling of the way--no notion--
No go--by land or ocean--
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees.
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds.
November!

JACOB OMNIUM'S HOSS A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

One sees in Viteall Yard,
Vere pleacemen do resort.
A wenerable hinstitute,
'Tis called the Pallis Court
A gent as got his i on it,
I think will make some sport

The natur of this Court
My hindignation riles:
A few fat legal spiders
Here set & spin their viles;
To rob the town theyr privlege is,
In a hayrea of twelve miles.

The Judge of this year Court
Is a mellitary beak.
He knows no more of Lor
Than praps he does of Greek,
And prowides hisself a deputy
Because he can not speak.

Four counsel in this Court--
Misnamed of Justice--sits;
These lawyers owes their places to
Their money, not their wits;
And there's six attornies under them,
As here their living gits.

These lawyers, six and four,
Was a livin at their ease,
A sendin of their writs abowt,
And droring in the fees,
When their erose a cirkimstance
As is like to make a breeze.
It now is some monce since,
A gent both good and trew
Possest a ansum oss vith vich
He didn know what to do:
Peraps he did not like the oss,
Perhaps he was a scru.

This gentleman his oss
At Tattersall's did lodge;
There came a wulgar oss-dealer,
This gentleman's name did fodge,
And took the oss from Tattersall's:
Wasn that a artful dodge?

One day this gentleman's groom
This willain did spy out,
A mounted on this oss,
A ridin him about;
"Get out of that there oss, you rogue,"
Speaks up the groom so stout.

The thief was cruel whex'd
To find hisself so pinn'd;
The oss began to whinny,
The honest groom he grinn'd;
And the raskle thief got off the oss
And cut avay like vind.

And phansy with what joy
The master did regard
His dearly bluvd lost oss again
Trot in the stable yard!

Who was this master good
Of whomb I makes these rhymes?
His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire;
And if _I_'d committed crimes,
Good Lord! I wouldn't ave that mann
Attack me in the TIMES!

Now, shortly after the groomb
His master's oss did take up,
There came a livery-man
This gentleman to wake up;
And he handed in a little bill,
Which hanger'd Mr. Jacob.

For two pound seventeen
This livery-man eplied,
For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss,
Which the thief had took to ride.
"Do you see any think green in me?"
Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.

"Because a raskle chews
My oss away to robb,
And goes tick at your Mews
For seven-and-fifty bobb,
Shall _I_ be called to pay?--It is
A iniquitious Jobb."

Thus Mr. Jacob cut
The conwasation short;
The livery-man went ome,
Detummingd to ave sport,
And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire,
Into the Pallis Court

Pore Jacob went to Court,
A Counsel for to fix,
And choose a barrister out of the four,
An attorney of the six;
And there he sor these men of Lor,
And watched 'em at their tricks.
The dreadful day of trile
In the Pallis Court did come;
The lawyers said their say,
The Judge looked wery glum,
And then the British Jury cast
Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um.

O, a weary day was that
For Jacob to go through;
The debt was two seventeen
(Which he no mor owed than you).
And then there was the plaintives costs,
Eleven pound six and two.

And then there was his own,
Which the lawyers they did fix
At the wery moderit figgar
Of ten pound one and six.
Now Evins bless the Pallis Court,
And all its bold ver-dicks!

I can not settingly tell
If Jacob swaw and cust,
At aving for to pay this sumb,
But I should think he must,
And av drawm a cheque for L24 4s. 8d.
With most igstreme disgust.

O Pallis Court, you move My pitty most profound. A most emusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt, With two-and-twenty pound.

Good sport it is to you,
To grind the honest pore;
To puy their just or unjust debts
With eight hundred per cent, for Lor;
Make haste and git your costes in,
They will not last much mor!

Come down from that tribewn,
Thou Shameless and Unjust;
Thou Swindle, picking pockets in
The name of Truth, august;
Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy,
For die thou shalt and must.

And go it, Jacob Homnium,
And ply your iron pen,
And rise up Sir John Jervis,
And shut me up that den;
That sty for fattening lawyers in,
On the bones of honest men.

PLEACEMAN X.

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.