I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say And they were now, as he supposed, "somewheres" about the A landsman said, "I twig the chap-he's been upon the MillAnd 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill !" He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely stow'd the swag." -That's French, I fancy, for a hat-or else a carpet-bag. I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if “I did not wish that I might get it back ?" I answered, "To be sure I do!-it's what I come about." He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?" Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about." He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," MORAL. Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!" Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who 've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!" Don't take too much of double X!-and don't at night go out stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well! THE GHOST. R. HARRIS BARHAM. THERE stands a City,-neither large nor small, Its air and situation sweet and pretty; It matters very little-if at all Whether its denizens are dull or witty, Whether the ladies there are short or tall, Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city !— Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it. A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes, And kings and heroes lie entombed within her; There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose, Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner; There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner; And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket, -Till four assassins came from France to crack it. The Castle was a huge and antique mound, To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver. Sloping down gradually to the river, Resembling (to compare great things with smaller) The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately, In martial panoply so grand and stately, Its walls are filled with money-making fellows, And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly, With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows; In short, so great a change has come to pass, 'Tis now a manufactory of Gas. But to my tale.-Before this profanation, And ere its ancient glories were cut short all, I know but little of-a strange, odd mortal; Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm, She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion; Would now and then seize, upon small occasion, A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie, And baste her lord and master most confoundedly. No matter;-'tis a thing that's not uncommon, 'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,— I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman, Such as I own I entertain a dread of, -And so did Nick,-whom sometimes there would come on A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off, Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in, She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing." "There's time and place for all things," said a sage 'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy: To get well mill'd by any one's an evil, And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble (At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity; For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble, His senses lost in a sublime immensity Of cogitation-then he could n't cobble And then his wife would often try the density Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might, As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light. Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife, A vast antipathy!-but so he said- On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed, Grope darkling in, and soon as at the door He heard his lady-he'd pretend to snore. One night, then, ever partial to society, Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow), At the "City Arms," once call'd the "Porto Bello;" Like John Gale Jones', erst in Piccadilly, It more resembled one of later date, And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street, Where kindlier nurtured souls do congregate, And, though there are who deem that same a low street, Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate And genuine humor it's surpassed by no street, Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults, Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapor. Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, And what the Romans wrote on ere they'd paper; This night the subject of their disquisitions Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprites, and Apparitions, One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man," Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel:"His well-read friend, who next to speak began, Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;" A third, of more extensive learning, ran To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal; Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One-he Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture Impended from his fond and faithful She; Vain fruitless hope!—The wearied sentinel When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse inay go,- Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread; And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor; While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,"How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?" |