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'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!
The army-surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, they're only pegs:
But there's as wooden members quite
As represent my legs!"
"Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you can not wear your
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 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,
A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT.
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,