On account of her conduck so base and so vile,
That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,
And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea,
It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,
From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep,
Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek
To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.

THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS.

PLEACEMAN X.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

GALLIANT gents and lovely ladies,
List a tail vich late befel,
Vich I heard it, bein on duty,

At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,
Vere the little children sings:
(Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies

Them there pooty little things!)

In this street there lived a housemaid,
If you particklarly ask me where-
Vy, it was at four-and-tventy,

Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square.

Vich her name was Eliza Davis,

And she went to fetch the beer:
In the street she met a party

As was quite surprized to see her.

Vich he vas a British Sailor,
For to judge him by his look:
Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies,
Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes

Of this hinnocent young gal—
Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom,
You're so like my Sister Sal!

You're so like my Sister Sally,
Both in valk and face and size;
Miss, that-dang my old lee scuppers,
It brings tears into my hyes!

I'm a mate on board a wessel,

I'm a sailor bold and true; Shiver up my poor old timbers, Let me be a mate for you!

What's your name, my beauty, tell me?
And she faintly hansers, "Lore,
Sir, my name 's Eliza Davis,

And I live at tventy-four."

Hofttimes came this British seaman,
This deluded gal to meet:
And at twenty-four was welcome,
Tventy-four in Guilford Street.

And Eliza told her Master

(Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him
(Vich vas all his hartful plan),
And she told how Charley Thompson
Reely was a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in
Many years of union sweet,
Vith a gent she met promiskous,
Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them,

And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin,

Hand the clergyman jine their ands.

And he ast about the lodgers

(Vich her master let some rooms), Likevise vere they kop their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson
Came on Sundy veek to see her,
And he sent Eliza Davis

Hout to vetch a pint of beer.

Hand while poor Eliza vent to

Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin, This etrocious Charley Thompson Let his wile accomplish hin.

To the lodgers, their apartments,

This abandingd female goes, Prigs their shirts and umberellas : Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes.

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson,
Lest his wictim should escape,
Hocust her vith rum and vater,
Like a fiend in huming shape.
But a hi was fixt upon 'em

Vich these raskles little sore;
Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord

Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden,

Just afore he vent to sup; And on looking up he sor the

Lodger's vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;
Something's going wrong, he said;
And he caught the vicked voman
Underneath the lodger's bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman,
Vich vas passing on his beat,
Like a true and galliant feller,

Hup and down in Guildford Street.

And that Pleaseman, able-bodied,

Took this voman to the cell;
To the cell vere she was quodded,
In the Close of Clerkenwell.

And though vicked Charley Thompson
Boulted like a miscrant base,
Presently another Pleaseman
Took him to the self-same place.

And this precious pair of raskles

Tuesday last came up for doom;
By the beak they was committed,
Vich his name was Mr. Combe.

Has for poor Eliza Davis,

Simple gurl of tventy-four,
She, I ope, will never listen

In the streets to sailors moar.

But if she must ave a sweet-art
(Vich most every gurl expex),
Let her take a jolly Pleaseman,

Vich is name peraps is-X.

LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.*

BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE).

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

I PACED upon my beat
With steady step and slow,
All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street;
Ran'lagh, St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd
Upon that fair May morn,
Beold the booming cannings sound,
A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State
Then presnly I sor,
They gallops to the Pallis gate,
In carridges and for.

The birth of Prince Arthur.

With anxious looks intent,
Before the gate they stop,
There comes the good Lord President,
And there the Archbishopp.

Lord John he next elights;

And who comes here in haste? 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste.

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,

Toward them steps with joy; Says the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us, Is it a gal or a boy?"

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,

"Your Grace, it is a Prince." And at that nuss's bold rebuke, He did both laugh and wince.

He vews with pleasant look

This pooty flower of May, Then says the wenerable Duke, "Egad, its my buthday."

By memory backards borne,

Peraps his thoughts did stray
To that old place where he was born
Upon the first of May.

Peraps he did recal

The ancient towers of Trim;
And County Meath and Dangan Hall
They did rewisit him.

I phansy of him so

His good old thoughts employin'; Fourscore years and one ago

Beside the flowin' Boyne.

His father praps he sees,
Most musicle of Lords,
A playing maddrigles and glees
Upon the Arpsicords.