BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE,

THE SHROPSHIRE BLUEBEARD.

A LEGEND OF "THE PROUD SALOPIANS."

Hisce ferè temporibus, in agro Salopiensi, Quidam, cui nomen Johannes,Le Sanglauntdeinde nuncupatus, uxores quamplurimas ducit, enecat et (ita referunt) manducat; ossa solùm cani miræ magnitudinis relinquens. Tùm demùm in flagrante delicto, vel "manu rubrâ," ut dicunt Jurisconsulti, deprensus, carnifice vix opprimitur.—Radulphus de Diceto.

Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright,Bloudie Jacke?Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright?—The Mother's at home, The Maid may not roam,She never will meet thee to-night!By the lightOf the moon—it's impossible—quite!Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright,Bloudie Jacke!It gleams with a fiendish delight—"'Tis done— She is won! Nothing under the sunCan loose the charm'd ring, though it's slight!Ho! ho!It fits so remarkably tight!"—The wire is as thin as a thread,Bloudie Jacke!The wire is as thin as a thread!—"Though slight be the chain, Again might and mainCannot rend it in twain—She is wed!She is wed!She is mine, be she living or dead!Haw! haw!!"—Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud,Bloudie Jacke!Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile,Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear,O dear!It makes the blood curdle with fear!The Maiden is gone by the glen,Bloudie Jacke!She is gone by the glen and the wood—It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring,While her tresses are bound with a snood.By the rood!It's a thing that's not well understood!The Maiden is stately and tall,Bloudie Jacke!And stately she walks in her pride;But the Young Mary-Anne Runs as fast as she can,To o'ertake her, and walk by her side:Though she chide—She deems not her sister a bride!But the Maiden is gone by the glen,Bloudie Jacke!Mary-Anne she is gone by the lea;She o'ertakes not her sister, It's clear she has miss'd her,And cannot think where she can be!Dear me!"Ho! ho!—We shall see—we shall see!"Mary-Anne is gone over the lea,Bloudie Jacke!Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower;But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail,A deal more than a fair Lady's bower,So sourIts ugly grey walls seem to lour.For the Barbican's massy and high,Bloudie Jacke!And the oak-door is heavy and brown,And with iron it's plated And machecollated,To pour boiling oil and lead down;How you'd frownShould a ladle-full fall on your crown!The rock that it stands on is steep,Bloudie Jacke!To gain it one's forced for to creep;The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long,And the water runs all round the Keep;At a peepYou can see that the Moat's very deep!The Drawbridge is long, but it's down,Bloudie Jacke!And the Portcullis hangs in the air;And no Warder is near With his horn and his spear,To give notice when people come there.—I declareMary-Anne has run into the square!The oak-door is heavy and brown,Bloudie Jacke!But the oak-door is standing ajar,And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair,You seem tired, Miss, with running so far—So you are—With grown people you're scarce on a par!"But the young Mary-Anne isnottired,Bloudie Jacke!She roams o'er your Tower by herself;She runs through, very soon, Each boudoir and saloon,And examines each closet and shelf,Your pelf,All your plate, and your china—and delf.She looks at your Arras so fine,Bloudie Jacke!So rich, all description it mocks;And she now and then pauses To gaze at the vases,Your pictures, and or-molu clocks;Every box,Every cupboard, and drawer she unlocks.She looks at the paintings so rare,Bloudie Jacke!That adorn every wall in your house;Yourimpayablepieces, Your Paul Veroneses,Your Rembrandts, your Guidos, and Dows,Moreland's Cows,Claude's Landscapes,—and Landseer's Bow-wows.She looks at your Statues so fine,Bloudie Jacke!And mighty great notice she takesOf your Niobe crying, Your Mirmillo dying,Your Hercules strangling the snakes,—How he shakesThe nasty great things as he wakes!Your Laocoon, his serpents and boys,Bloudie Jacke!She views with some little dismay;A copy of that I can See in the Vatican,Unless the Pope's sent it away,As they say,In the Globe, he intended last May.[41]There's your Belvidere Phœbus, with which,Bloudie Jacke!Mr. Milman says none other vies.(His lines on Apollo Beat all the rest hollow,And gained him the Newdigate prize.)How the eyesSeem watching the shaft as it flies!There's a room full of satins and silks,Bloudie Jacke!There's a room full of velvets and lace,There are drawers full of rings, And a thousand fine things,And a splendid gold watch with a caseO'er its face,Is in every room in the place.There are forty fine rooms on a floor,Bloudie Jacke!And every room fit for a Ball,It's so gorgeous and rich, With so lofty a pitch,And so long, and so broad, and so tall;Yes, all,Save the last one—and that's very small!It boasts not stool, table, or chair,Bloudie Jacke!ButoneCabinet, costly and grand,Which has little gold figures Of little gold Niggers,With fishing-rods stuck in each hand.—It's japann'd,And it's placed on a splendid buhl stand.It's hinges and clasps are of gold,Bloudie Jacke!And of gold are its keyhole and key,And the drawers within Have each a gold pin,And they're number'd with 1, 2, and 3,You may seeAll the figures in gold filigree!Number 1's full of emeralds green,Bloudie Jacke!Number 2's full of diamond and pearl;But what does she see In drawer Number 3That makes all her senses to whirl,Poor Girl!And each lock of her hair to uncurl?—Wedding Fingers are sweet pretty things,Bloudie Jacke!To salute them one eagerly strives,When one kneels to "propose"—It's anotherquelque choseWhen cut off at the knuckles with knivesFrom our wives,They are tied up in bunches of fives.Yet there they lie, one, two, three, four!Bloudie Jacke!There lie they, five, six, seven, eight!And by them, in rows, Like eight little Great-Toes,To match in size, colour, and weight!From their state,It would seem they'd been sever'd of late.Beside them are eight Wedding-rings,Bloudie Jacke!And the gold is as thin as a thread—"Ho! ho!—She is mine—This will make up the Nine!"—Dear me! who those shocking words said?——She fledTo hide herself under the bed.But, alas! there's no bed in the room,Bloudie Jacke!And she peeps from the window on high;Only fancy her fright And the terrible sightDown below, which at once meets her eye!"Oh My!!"She half utter'd,—but stifled her cry.For she saw it was You and your Man,Bloudie Jacke!And she heard your unpleasant "Haw! haw!"While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head,O'er the bridge you were trying to draw,As she saw—A thing quite contra-ry to law!Your man has got hold of her heels,Bloudie Jacke!Bloudie Jacke!you've got hold of her hair!—But norJackenor his Man Can see young Mary-Anne,She has hid herself under the stair,And thereIs a horrid great Dog, I declare!His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear,Bloudie Jacke!He's a sad ugly cur for a pet;He seems of the breed Of that "Billy," indeed,Who used to kill rats for a bet;—I forgetHow many one morning he ate.He has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there,Bloudie JackeAnd thigh-bones;—and, though it's so dim,Yet it's plain to be seenHe has pick'd them quite clean,—She expects to be torn limb from limb,So grimHe looks at her—and she looks at him!She has given him a bun and a roll,Bloudie Jacke!She has given him a roll and a bun,And a Shrewsbury cake, OfPailin's[42]own make,Which she happened to take ere her runShe begun—She'd been used to a luncheon at One.It's "a pretty particular Fix,"Bloudie Jacke!—Above,—there's the Maiden that's dead;Below—growling at her— There's that Cannibal Cur,Who at present is munching her bread,InsteadOf her leg,—or her arm,—or her head.It's "a pretty particular Fix,"Bloudie Jacke!She is caught like a mouse in a trap;—Stay! there's something, I think,That has slipp'd through a chink,And fall'n, by a singular hap,Slap,Into poor little Mary-Anne's lap!It's a very fine little gold ring,Bloudie Jacke!Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout,But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remainOn her frock—for Blood will not wash out;I doubtSalts of Lemon won't bring it about!She has grasp'd that gold ring in her hand,Bloudie Jacke!In an instant she stands on the floor,She makes but one bound O'er the back of the hound,And a hop, skip, and jump to the door,And she's o'erThe drawbridge she'd traversed before!Her hair's floating loose in the breeze,Bloudie Jacke!For gone is her "bonnet of blue."—Now the Barbican's past!— Her legs "go it" as fastAs two drumsticks a-beating tattoo,As they doAt Réveillie, Parade, or Review!She has run into Shrewsbury town,Bloudie Jacke!She has called out the Beadle and May'r,And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police,Till "Battle Field" swarms like a Fair,—And see there!—E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!!There's a pretty to-do in your Tower,Bloudie Jacke!In your Tower there's a pretty to-do!All the people of Shrewsbury Playing old gooseberryWith your choice bits of taste andvirtù;Each bijouIs upset in their search after you!They are playing the deuce with your things,Bloudie Jacke!There's your Cupid is broken in two,And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses,The "Antique" ones you bought of the Jew,And the newOne, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud.TheCallipyge'sinjured behind,Bloudie Jacke!TheDe Medici'sinjured before;And theAnadyomene's injured in so manyPlaces, I think there's a score,If not more,Of her fingers and toes on the floor.They are hunting you up stairs and down,Bloudie Jacke!Every person to pass is forbid,While they turn out the closets And all their deposits—"There's the dust-hole—come lift up the lid!"—So they did—But they could not find where you were hid!Ah! Ah!—they will have you at last,Bloudie Jacke!The chimneys to search they begin;—They have found you at last!—There you are, sticking fast,With your knees doubled up to your chin,Though you're thin!—Dear me! what a mess you are in!—What a terrible pickle you're in,Bloudie Jacke!Why, your face is as black as your hat!Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt!And so is your point-lace cravat!What a FlatTo seek such an asylum as that!They can scarcely help laughing, I vow,Bloudie Jacke!In the midst of their turmoil and strife;You're not fit to be seen!— You look like Mr. KeanIn the play, where he murders his wife!—On my lifeYou ought to be scraped with a knife!They have pull'd you down flat on your back,Bloudie Jacke!They have pull'd you down flat on your back!And they smack, and they thwack,Till your "funny bones" crack,As if you were stretched on the rack,At each thwack!—Good lack! what a savage attack!They call for the Parliament Man,Bloudie Jacke!And the Hangman, the matter to clinch,And they call for the Judge, But others cry "Fudge!—Don't budge Mr. Calcraft,[43]an inch!Mr. Lynch![44]Will do very well at a pinch!"It is useless to scuffle and cuff,Bloudie Jacke!It is useless to struggle and bite!And to kick and to scratch!You have met with your match,And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight,DespiteYour determined attempts "to shew fight."They are pulling you all sorts of ways,Bloudie Jacke!They are twisting your right leg Nor-West,And your left leg due South,And your knee's in your mouth,And your head is poked down on your breast,And it's prest,I protest, almost into your chest!They have pulled off your arms and your legs,Bloudie Jacke!As the naughty boys serve the blue flies;And they've torn from their sockets,And put in their pocketsYour fingers and thumbs for a prize!And your eyesA Doctor has bottled—from Guy's.[45]Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn,Bloudie Jacke!They hew, and they hack, and they chop;And, to finish the whole, They stick up a poleIn the place that's still called the "Wylde Coppe,"And they popYour grim gory head on the top!They have buried the fingers and toes,Bloudie Jacke!Of the victims so lately your prey.From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes,"Ladyes' fyngers" they're called to this day;—So they say,—And you usually dig them in May.What became of the dear little girl?Bloudie Jacke!What became of the young Mary-Anne?Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid,For she fancied that every Young ManHad a planTo trepan her like "poor Sister Fan!"So they say she is now leading apes,Bloudie Jacke!And mends Bachelors' small-clothes below;The story is old, And has often been told,But I cannot believe it is so—No! No!Depend on't the tale is "No Go!"Moral.And now for the moral I'd fain,Bloudie Jacke!That young Ladies should draw from my pen,—It's—"Don't take these flights Upon moon-shiny nights,With gay,harum-scarumyoung men,Down a glen!—You really can't trust one in ten!"Let them think of your terrible Tower,Bloudie Jacke;And don't let them liberties take,Whether Maidens or Spouses, In Bachelors' houses;Or, some time or another, they'll makeA Mistake!And lose—more than aShrewsberrie Cake!!

Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright,Bloudie Jacke!It gleams with a fiendish delight—"'Tis done— She is won! Nothing under the sunCan loose the charm'd ring, though it's slight!Ho! ho!It fits so remarkably tight!"—

The wire is as thin as a thread,Bloudie Jacke!The wire is as thin as a thread!—"Though slight be the chain, Again might and mainCannot rend it in twain—She is wed!She is wed!She is mine, be she living or dead!Haw! haw!!"—

Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud,Bloudie Jacke!Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile,Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear,O dear!It makes the blood curdle with fear!

The Maiden is gone by the glen,Bloudie Jacke!She is gone by the glen and the wood—It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring,While her tresses are bound with a snood.By the rood!It's a thing that's not well understood!

The Maiden is stately and tall,Bloudie Jacke!And stately she walks in her pride;But the Young Mary-Anne Runs as fast as she can,To o'ertake her, and walk by her side:Though she chide—She deems not her sister a bride!

But the Maiden is gone by the glen,Bloudie Jacke!Mary-Anne she is gone by the lea;She o'ertakes not her sister, It's clear she has miss'd her,And cannot think where she can be!Dear me!"Ho! ho!—We shall see—we shall see!"

Mary-Anne is gone over the lea,Bloudie Jacke!Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower;But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail,A deal more than a fair Lady's bower,So sourIts ugly grey walls seem to lour.

For the Barbican's massy and high,Bloudie Jacke!And the oak-door is heavy and brown,And with iron it's plated And machecollated,To pour boiling oil and lead down;How you'd frownShould a ladle-full fall on your crown!

The rock that it stands on is steep,Bloudie Jacke!To gain it one's forced for to creep;The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long,And the water runs all round the Keep;At a peepYou can see that the Moat's very deep!

The Drawbridge is long, but it's down,Bloudie Jacke!And the Portcullis hangs in the air;And no Warder is near With his horn and his spear,To give notice when people come there.—I declareMary-Anne has run into the square!

The oak-door is heavy and brown,Bloudie Jacke!But the oak-door is standing ajar,And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair,You seem tired, Miss, with running so far—So you are—With grown people you're scarce on a par!"

But the young Mary-Anne isnottired,Bloudie Jacke!She roams o'er your Tower by herself;She runs through, very soon, Each boudoir and saloon,And examines each closet and shelf,Your pelf,All your plate, and your china—and delf.

She looks at your Arras so fine,Bloudie Jacke!So rich, all description it mocks;And she now and then pauses To gaze at the vases,Your pictures, and or-molu clocks;Every box,Every cupboard, and drawer she unlocks.

She looks at the paintings so rare,Bloudie Jacke!That adorn every wall in your house;Yourimpayablepieces, Your Paul Veroneses,Your Rembrandts, your Guidos, and Dows,Moreland's Cows,Claude's Landscapes,—and Landseer's Bow-wows.

She looks at your Statues so fine,Bloudie Jacke!And mighty great notice she takesOf your Niobe crying, Your Mirmillo dying,Your Hercules strangling the snakes,—How he shakesThe nasty great things as he wakes!

Your Laocoon, his serpents and boys,Bloudie Jacke!She views with some little dismay;A copy of that I can See in the Vatican,Unless the Pope's sent it away,As they say,In the Globe, he intended last May.[41]

There's your Belvidere Phœbus, with which,Bloudie Jacke!Mr. Milman says none other vies.(His lines on Apollo Beat all the rest hollow,And gained him the Newdigate prize.)How the eyesSeem watching the shaft as it flies!

There's a room full of satins and silks,Bloudie Jacke!There's a room full of velvets and lace,There are drawers full of rings, And a thousand fine things,And a splendid gold watch with a caseO'er its face,Is in every room in the place.

There are forty fine rooms on a floor,Bloudie Jacke!And every room fit for a Ball,It's so gorgeous and rich, With so lofty a pitch,And so long, and so broad, and so tall;Yes, all,Save the last one—and that's very small!

It boasts not stool, table, or chair,Bloudie Jacke!ButoneCabinet, costly and grand,Which has little gold figures Of little gold Niggers,With fishing-rods stuck in each hand.—It's japann'd,And it's placed on a splendid buhl stand.

It's hinges and clasps are of gold,Bloudie Jacke!And of gold are its keyhole and key,And the drawers within Have each a gold pin,And they're number'd with 1, 2, and 3,You may seeAll the figures in gold filigree!

Number 1's full of emeralds green,Bloudie Jacke!Number 2's full of diamond and pearl;But what does she see In drawer Number 3That makes all her senses to whirl,Poor Girl!And each lock of her hair to uncurl?—

Wedding Fingers are sweet pretty things,Bloudie Jacke!To salute them one eagerly strives,When one kneels to "propose"—It's anotherquelque choseWhen cut off at the knuckles with knivesFrom our wives,They are tied up in bunches of fives.

Yet there they lie, one, two, three, four!Bloudie Jacke!There lie they, five, six, seven, eight!And by them, in rows, Like eight little Great-Toes,To match in size, colour, and weight!From their state,It would seem they'd been sever'd of late.

Beside them are eight Wedding-rings,Bloudie Jacke!And the gold is as thin as a thread—"Ho! ho!—She is mine—This will make up the Nine!"—Dear me! who those shocking words said?——She fledTo hide herself under the bed.

But, alas! there's no bed in the room,Bloudie Jacke!And she peeps from the window on high;Only fancy her fright And the terrible sightDown below, which at once meets her eye!"Oh My!!"She half utter'd,—but stifled her cry.

For she saw it was You and your Man,Bloudie Jacke!And she heard your unpleasant "Haw! haw!"While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head,O'er the bridge you were trying to draw,As she saw—A thing quite contra-ry to law!

Your man has got hold of her heels,Bloudie Jacke!Bloudie Jacke!you've got hold of her hair!—But norJackenor his Man Can see young Mary-Anne,She has hid herself under the stair,And thereIs a horrid great Dog, I declare!

His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear,Bloudie Jacke!He's a sad ugly cur for a pet;He seems of the breed Of that "Billy," indeed,Who used to kill rats for a bet;—I forgetHow many one morning he ate.

He has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there,Bloudie JackeAnd thigh-bones;—and, though it's so dim,Yet it's plain to be seenHe has pick'd them quite clean,—She expects to be torn limb from limb,So grimHe looks at her—and she looks at him!

She has given him a bun and a roll,Bloudie Jacke!She has given him a roll and a bun,And a Shrewsbury cake, OfPailin's[42]own make,Which she happened to take ere her runShe begun—She'd been used to a luncheon at One.

It's "a pretty particular Fix,"Bloudie Jacke!—Above,—there's the Maiden that's dead;Below—growling at her— There's that Cannibal Cur,Who at present is munching her bread,InsteadOf her leg,—or her arm,—or her head.

It's "a pretty particular Fix,"Bloudie Jacke!She is caught like a mouse in a trap;—Stay! there's something, I think,That has slipp'd through a chink,And fall'n, by a singular hap,Slap,Into poor little Mary-Anne's lap!

It's a very fine little gold ring,Bloudie Jacke!Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout,But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remainOn her frock—for Blood will not wash out;I doubtSalts of Lemon won't bring it about!

She has grasp'd that gold ring in her hand,Bloudie Jacke!In an instant she stands on the floor,She makes but one bound O'er the back of the hound,And a hop, skip, and jump to the door,And she's o'erThe drawbridge she'd traversed before!

Her hair's floating loose in the breeze,Bloudie Jacke!For gone is her "bonnet of blue."—Now the Barbican's past!— Her legs "go it" as fastAs two drumsticks a-beating tattoo,As they doAt Réveillie, Parade, or Review!

She has run into Shrewsbury town,Bloudie Jacke!She has called out the Beadle and May'r,And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police,Till "Battle Field" swarms like a Fair,—And see there!—E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!!

There's a pretty to-do in your Tower,Bloudie Jacke!In your Tower there's a pretty to-do!All the people of Shrewsbury Playing old gooseberryWith your choice bits of taste andvirtù;Each bijouIs upset in their search after you!

They are playing the deuce with your things,Bloudie Jacke!There's your Cupid is broken in two,And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses,The "Antique" ones you bought of the Jew,And the newOne, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud.

TheCallipyge'sinjured behind,Bloudie Jacke!TheDe Medici'sinjured before;And theAnadyomene's injured in so manyPlaces, I think there's a score,If not more,Of her fingers and toes on the floor.

They are hunting you up stairs and down,Bloudie Jacke!Every person to pass is forbid,While they turn out the closets And all their deposits—"There's the dust-hole—come lift up the lid!"—So they did—But they could not find where you were hid!

Ah! Ah!—they will have you at last,Bloudie Jacke!The chimneys to search they begin;—They have found you at last!—There you are, sticking fast,With your knees doubled up to your chin,Though you're thin!—Dear me! what a mess you are in!—

What a terrible pickle you're in,Bloudie Jacke!Why, your face is as black as your hat!Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt!And so is your point-lace cravat!What a FlatTo seek such an asylum as that!

They can scarcely help laughing, I vow,Bloudie Jacke!In the midst of their turmoil and strife;You're not fit to be seen!— You look like Mr. KeanIn the play, where he murders his wife!—On my lifeYou ought to be scraped with a knife!

They have pull'd you down flat on your back,Bloudie Jacke!They have pull'd you down flat on your back!And they smack, and they thwack,Till your "funny bones" crack,As if you were stretched on the rack,At each thwack!—Good lack! what a savage attack!

They call for the Parliament Man,Bloudie Jacke!And the Hangman, the matter to clinch,And they call for the Judge, But others cry "Fudge!—Don't budge Mr. Calcraft,[43]an inch!Mr. Lynch![44]Will do very well at a pinch!"

It is useless to scuffle and cuff,Bloudie Jacke!It is useless to struggle and bite!And to kick and to scratch!You have met with your match,And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight,DespiteYour determined attempts "to shew fight."

They are pulling you all sorts of ways,Bloudie Jacke!They are twisting your right leg Nor-West,And your left leg due South,And your knee's in your mouth,And your head is poked down on your breast,And it's prest,I protest, almost into your chest!

They have pulled off your arms and your legs,Bloudie Jacke!As the naughty boys serve the blue flies;And they've torn from their sockets,And put in their pocketsYour fingers and thumbs for a prize!And your eyesA Doctor has bottled—from Guy's.[45]

Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn,Bloudie Jacke!They hew, and they hack, and they chop;And, to finish the whole, They stick up a poleIn the place that's still called the "Wylde Coppe,"And they popYour grim gory head on the top!

They have buried the fingers and toes,Bloudie Jacke!Of the victims so lately your prey.From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes,"Ladyes' fyngers" they're called to this day;—So they say,—And you usually dig them in May.

What became of the dear little girl?Bloudie Jacke!What became of the young Mary-Anne?Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid,For she fancied that every Young ManHad a planTo trepan her like "poor Sister Fan!"

So they say she is now leading apes,Bloudie Jacke!And mends Bachelors' small-clothes below;The story is old, And has often been told,But I cannot believe it is so—No! No!Depend on't the tale is "No Go!"

Moral.

And now for the moral I'd fain,Bloudie Jacke!That young Ladies should draw from my pen,—It's—"Don't take these flights Upon moon-shiny nights,With gay,harum-scarumyoung men,Down a glen!—You really can't trust one in ten!"Let them think of your terrible Tower,Bloudie Jacke;And don't let them liberties take,Whether Maidens or Spouses, In Bachelors' houses;Or, some time or another, they'll makeA Mistake!And lose—more than aShrewsberrie Cake!!

FOOTNOTES:[41]"The Pope is said—this fact is hardly credible—to have sold the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvidere to the Emperor of Russia for nine million of francs."—Globe and Traveller.[42]Oh, Pailin! Prince of cake-compounders! the mouth liquefies at thy very name—but there![43]Jehan de Ketche acted as Provost Marshal to the army of William the Conqueror, and received from that monarch a grant of the dignity of Hereditary Grand Functionary of England, together with a croft or "parcel of land," known by the name of theOld Bailie, co. Middx., to be held by him, and the heirs general of his body, in Grand Serjeantry, by the yearly presentation of "ane hempen cravatte." After remaining for several generations in the same name, the office passed, by marriage of the heiress, into the ancient family of the Kirbys, and thence again to that of Callcraft (1st Eliz. 1558).—Abhorson Callcraft, Esq. of Saffron Hill, co. Middx., the present representative of the Ketches, exercised his "function" on a very recent occasion, and claimed and was allowed the fee of 13-1/2d.under the ancient grant asHangman's Wages.Arms.—1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter a Gibbet of the second, noosed proper,Callcraft. 2nd, Sable, three Nightcaps Argent, tufted Gules, 2 and 1,Ketche. 3rd, Or, a Nosegayfleurant,Kirby.Supporters.—Dexter: a Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained and collared Or.—Sinister: An Ordinary displayed proper, wigged and banded Argent, nosed Gules.Motto.—Sic itur ad astra![44]The American Justinian, Compiler of the "Yankee Pandects."[45]A similar appropriation is said to have been made, by an eminent practitioner, of those of the late Monsieur Courvoisier.

[41]"The Pope is said—this fact is hardly credible—to have sold the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvidere to the Emperor of Russia for nine million of francs."—Globe and Traveller.

[42]Oh, Pailin! Prince of cake-compounders! the mouth liquefies at thy very name—but there!

[43]Jehan de Ketche acted as Provost Marshal to the army of William the Conqueror, and received from that monarch a grant of the dignity of Hereditary Grand Functionary of England, together with a croft or "parcel of land," known by the name of theOld Bailie, co. Middx., to be held by him, and the heirs general of his body, in Grand Serjeantry, by the yearly presentation of "ane hempen cravatte." After remaining for several generations in the same name, the office passed, by marriage of the heiress, into the ancient family of the Kirbys, and thence again to that of Callcraft (1st Eliz. 1558).—Abhorson Callcraft, Esq. of Saffron Hill, co. Middx., the present representative of the Ketches, exercised his "function" on a very recent occasion, and claimed and was allowed the fee of 13-1/2d.under the ancient grant asHangman's Wages.Arms.—1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter a Gibbet of the second, noosed proper,Callcraft. 2nd, Sable, three Nightcaps Argent, tufted Gules, 2 and 1,Ketche. 3rd, Or, a Nosegayfleurant,Kirby.Supporters.—Dexter: a Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained and collared Or.—Sinister: An Ordinary displayed proper, wigged and banded Argent, nosed Gules.Motto.—Sic itur ad astra!

Arms.—1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter a Gibbet of the second, noosed proper,Callcraft. 2nd, Sable, three Nightcaps Argent, tufted Gules, 2 and 1,Ketche. 3rd, Or, a Nosegayfleurant,Kirby.

Supporters.—Dexter: a Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained and collared Or.—Sinister: An Ordinary displayed proper, wigged and banded Argent, nosed Gules.

Motto.—Sic itur ad astra!

[44]The American Justinian, Compiler of the "Yankee Pandects."

[45]A similar appropriation is said to have been made, by an eminent practitioner, of those of the late Monsieur Courvoisier.

Her niece, of whom I have before made honourable mention, is not a whit behind Mrs. Botherby in furnishing entertainment for the young folks. If little Charles has the aunt tosol fahim into slumber, Miss Jenny is equally fortunate in the possession of a Sappho of her own. It is to the air of "Drops of Brandy" that Patty has adapted her version of a venerable ditty, which we have all listened to with respect and affection under its old title of

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