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He'd read in papers oftentimes,

Of suicides in France ;
Which, for their eccentricity,

Quite made him look askance.
“Why don't they do in France”—you 'd hear

Him say, with anger frowning;
“And kill themselves as we do here,

By poison-hanging-drowning ?"
This funny fellow went to France,

But had not travelled far
In Paris, when he came upon

The noted “Pont des Arts !"
Which, in our English lingo, we

Translate the “ Bridge of Arts,” d’ye see.
Once there, he took out from his pouch, and slick,
Swallowed a thundering ounce of arsenic !
Him all the French, astonished, clapped their eyes on !

“Lubbers, look out!"

They heard him shout, “ That's what I call a settler—that is pison ! “But that's not all,” he cried--and quick he took

A coil of rope, and 'gan his neck to brace So tightly round, that one without a book

Might read, that he was blackening in the face ; Then leaped the bridge, with lithsome vault and clever, With “ Now I think I've hanged myself, however !"

HE COULD N'T KILL HIMSELF.

181

But—not enough for him—that would n't do,
Poison and hanging must have shooting too !
So as from the bridge's parapet he swung,
He took a pistol at his belt that hung,
And at one shot to clear all mortal pains out,
He raised it to his head to blow his brains out!
Merely exclaiming wildly—“If I'm not
Dead in a moment, Mounseer! I'll be shot.”—

But no!
Poison and rope and pistol, were no go!
The pistol-ball which would not pierce his brain,
Went through the rope, and cut it right in twain ;
So freed from shooting, and from hanging pain,
Ile fell into the water !—and gulped quick
So much, he brought up all the arsenic !
And last—the river, so his luck did crown him,
In that part was n’t deep enough to drown him !

So he gained this conviction by his fall :-
He could not no how kill himself at all !-

“Look here,
Mounseer,”

Said he ;
“You never did see sich a chap as me !
I've swallowed poison full an ounce ;
I hung myself with lots of bounce ;
I tried to shoot myself; but pounce

I plumped into the river down ;
And, dash me! then I could n't drown.
Well—I can't teach you how to die,
So never more will try;

Not I.
Bleed till your veins are empty, do,
Or die by charcoal two and two;
Have your own way, my boys, and I 'll have mine,
And as I cannot die, why let me dine;
As sure as I’m a saved and hungry sinner,
I’m peckish. Do-lord love ye—bring my dinner!

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