Chapter I: MET him one night there,

North east of Leicester Square,
Within about a quarter of a mile,
"I've confidence," said he,
"In all humanity,
I'll leave my bloomin' purse with thee awhile!"
He left it, went away
Then coming back, "I say,"
Said he, with an insinuating smile,
"Now lend your watch to me,
For I am like yourself without no guile,"
He took it, went away,
And from that evil day,
I keep that man's description on my file.

THE last car at night, is a vehicle laden with varied symptoms of mysterious hauntings that more or less oppress the fares, some toned down by the lassitude of overwork, drop gratefully into their seats, and quickly fall into fitful slumber, others seem to court a spasmodic notoriety by loud and disjointed converse. A weary of world expression clouds the features of a few with an unuttered protest, for the disagreeable fact of their birth, whilst others seem by their grumpy glances to suggest a jealous objection to other people's existence.

A select few, unconsciously advertise a flippant gratification at the possession of life, and squeeze festivity from it, as colour from a blue rag. But all are haunted with the mysterious workings of unseen spirits, that usually accompany the fares, in the latest car at night.

THERE wasn't a soul in the tramway car,
Well not that myself could see,
But the sad conductor took my arm,
And steadfast gazed on me--
Then pointing up to the corner seat,
"Look! that's his regular game,
I'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost,
But he hasn't a tint of shame!"

You'll think the tram conductor was drunk,
His breath was sweet as mine,
Like the orris root, or a tint of mint,
Or scent of a similar line.
It might be a ginger cordial; but
The air of the night was strong,
And it wouldn't be proper to say I'm sure,
I might perhaps be wrong.

"Will you slack?" said I, but he caught my arm
"The man that I killed is there!
I hate to have it to say. But no,
I can't recover my fare!
I asked it from him one winter's night,
But full as a tick with drink,
The only answer he gave to me,
Was just a chuckle and wink.
With this American tink-a-ting,
I couldn't defraud the Co.,
So caught his collar, and chucked him off
The back of the tram car, so.

There wasn't a soul that saw the deed,
Not even the driver knew,
And there he lay on the tramway track,
Till the townward car was due.
It broke his neck, and his shoulder blade,
His legs, and arms, its broke,
And laid him out, a squirming trout,
'Twas then he awoke, and spoke!

Said he, "What's up? is the dancing done?
The waltz has made me sore!"
And wriggling out on the frosty ground,
He never spoke no more!
Heigho! the murder was caused by me,
Was never a soul who knew,
That I am the man, who chucked the man,
That the townward tram car slew!

And everybody on earth was done
With the murdered man, but me!
The very next night, in the corner seat,
I looked, and there was he!
I thought at first that he might be a twin,
And asked his thruppeny fare,
But he sneered at me, I turned away,
And left him sneering there!
Thinks I, I'll watch him, and jot my tot,
And when he is goin' to go,
I'll chuck him the same, as I did before,
For sake of the tramway co.

I calculated the list of fares,
Then turned around to look,
But hey! I'm blowed, if he hadn't gone off,
Gone! with his bloomin' hook!

But how it was done, or whither he went,
I never could guess, or think,
For the ventilators all were shut,
There wasn't an open chink!

And I was up at the door so tight,
He couldn't have passed me by,
I never did close an eye that night,
No lid of a bloomin' eye!
I hates to see the company done,
And that was a cheated fare,
I'd rather lose my regular meals,
Than wrong the company, there!
I'd rather work from ante M, six
Till three of the A.M. clock,
Than wrong the tramway co. of a coin,
That wasn't my legal stock.
There's nobody sees the ghost but me,
Because he's a sneaking sprite,
He always comes when I take my turn
On the latest car at night.
That's him! he's there in the corner seat,
The man that I killed is there,
I hate to have it to say, But no,
I can't recover my fare!
I've this American tink-a-ting,
And tickets of sortin's three,
But that embezzling raw will come
To cheat, and sneer at me.

I cawnt tell why, but he worry's me so,
I'd collar him if I could,
He hasn't a scruff, or any a crop,
O' the neck, or flesh or blood,

He hasn't a waistband, I could grip,
Nor anythink I could kick,
I'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah!
To think of it, makes me sick
He hasn't a face, to black his eye,
Or even a hat to block,
But all the same, in the corner there,
He gives the fares a shock!
He dosses himself in the favourite seat,
And while he's nestlin' there,
The passengers cawnt shove up to the end,
To make my regular fare.

For some insist that the seat is cold!
And others complain it's hot!
And some it's damp, and some remark,
It's a most infernal spot!
And some keep shovin' their sticks above,
To let in the atmosphere,
While others are closin' them up with a curse,
The thing is devilish queer.

It's pisonous hard on a man like me,
Who lives on what he can get,
But I'll have to try and see if I cawnt,
Jest manage to shuffle him yet.

Ha! there, he's gone! I knew that he would,
Waltz out of my bloomin' sight!
His regular trick with my thruppeny fare,
Now--jump with the car, good night."

[Decoration]

MARGATE SANDS.

SHE was five, or six, he four years old,
When they met on the Margate Sands,
And he gravely looked in her great blue eyes
With hold of her little fat hands,
And he said, "I love oo well Rosie;
I know, dat I'd rather have oo,
Dan all de lickel girls on de sands to-day,
Iss, even dan de girl in blue!"

"I'm glad oo do; and I love oo too!"
Thro' a heaven of golden hair,
Like silvery bells, was her sweet response,
On the ozoned rose lit air,
And then with his bucket, and spade, he built
For his love, on the sand, that day,
A castle, and pie, till the tide came in,
And washed his castle away.

* * * * *

In many a year thereafter 'twas,
In a box in Drury Lane,
Said a gent, as he used his opera glass,
"Yon lady's remarkably plain!"
And the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time,
When she saw his glass in hand,
"What an ugly fright!" they did not know,
They had loved, on the Margate sand!

O PADDY MURPHY--carman of the stand in College Green--
You've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen,
We're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune,
Of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to Knockmaroon.

"O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long,
Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song,
For sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged McKune,
Behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to Knockmaroon.

'Twas in the busy period, whin the Fenians wor at war,
I mopes'd around the Dargle, on a newly painted car;
Whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon,
A man proposed the journey of a dhrive to Knockmaroon.

He might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run,
To Roosha or to Paykin, or the divil or the sun!
He might as well have axed me, for a Rocky Mountain jaunt;
So I bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "I can't!"
The boys to-night are risin' an' I darn't go impugn
Me car into the danger, of a dhrive to Knockmaroon!"

Thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone,
"In fact," siz I, "me car's engaged, in Bray, by Mick Malone;
Besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon,
For the army's out, I hear, upon the road to Knockmaroon!"

He didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car,
An' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war,
By pointin' a revolver at me nose! "I'm John McKune,
Dhrive on," siz he, "I'll guard you on the road to Knockmaroon!"
I never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before,
It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!
The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,
Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!
An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,
I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!
So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,
"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon."
"You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,
He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,
"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,--the featherbed,"--says he,
"I'll guard you, by the barracks of the Polis, at Glencree,
An' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the Royal Mail!
Whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!"

I gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip,
An' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip,
I bowled upon me journey, with the load of John McKune,
An' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to Knockmaroon;
An' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed,
The boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he said
Some hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him,
Presentin' arms, "Dhrive on," they cried, "God speed you Wicklow
Jim!"

I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip,
We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip,
We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air,
When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?"
It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon,
Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"--
He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone,
Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on!

He leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more,
"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"
But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,
He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!
Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,
You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;
We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,
So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,
Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!
Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,
An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,
Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!"

I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose,
To bid him go to blakers!--but the barrel at me nose,
Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue,
An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue!
I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an'
then,
He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again,
"You'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in Phoenix Park,"
He shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark,
An' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke,
As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke!

Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,
I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;
I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,
That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!

* * * * *

When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,
I read it on a paper,--in the Bowry of New York,--
Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,
Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"

He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor;
And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door,
He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon;
Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!"

He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip,
The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip,
He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart,
Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!

"Hands up!" they shouted "Damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb;
We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"
Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,
An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"

He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,
From collar of his cota--it was there to guard his life--
He hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon,
A pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of John McKune.

"O WHERE is my Johnnie acushla?" says she,
He left me last night, an' "Maggie" says he,
"It's meself an' yerself mam that couldn't agree,
Be dang but I'll go for a sojer!"

He took all the cash that I had in the till,
I followed him round to the butt of the hill,
"Go back, or yerself is the first that I'll kill!"
Says he, "Whin I'm gone for a sojer!"

I hung to his neck, an' I axed him to stay,
Ye might as well ax for the night to be day;
But wringin' his neck from me, shoutin' "Hooray!"
Says he "Whoo! I'll go for a sojer!"

I set the dog afther him, thought that he'd stick
In the tail of his coat, he was up to the thrick;
For he turned on his heel, an' he skelped him a lick,
Of the stick, "I am off for a sojer!"

"O whisht! arrah there, look he's comin'!" she cried,
As far in the distance, her Jack she espied,
With Corporal Quirk on the march by his side,
He's comin' back home with a sojer.

When Johnnie came near enough to her to spake,
"O Johnnie Avourneen!" said she, "did ye take
The shillin'?" "No faith, for I'm too wide awake,
I only wint off for a sojer."

[Decoration]

ODE HERE!