A FUGITIVE KISS.

The Late Fitz-Binks

IT was about an hour they call the small, and the mysterious,An hour wherein the ghosts are wont to take their constitutional,'Twas twenty-four o'clock; an hour that's oftimes deleteriousTo many a liver wetted swell, pugnacious or emotional.The beggared corporation lights, did flick in the nor'wester gale,That blistering nose, and finger-tips, were loaded well with sleet,When Binks harrangued a constable, "Good night, it's cold, you're looking pale,"From where he backed a lamp-post, at the end of Brunswick Street."Ah! Sergeant," said Fitz-Binks, "It's late, or I could treat you decently,And 'twouldn't be too dusty, if we had a flying drink;But Chap, of Vic., is strict, they passed in Parliament so recently,"The bobbie was a thirsty one, he winked a thirsty wink."Ha! ha!" said Binks, "You know the lines, so don't be too particular,There's some back door that's open," said the constable, "you're right;Just move an' there thro' yondher lane an' hide up perpendicular,Beyant the lamp, I'll folly whin there's nobody in sight."The thing was managed gracefully, and with an open sesamè,The constable had stolen to a quiet bar with Binks,Produced a clay, said he, "I hope yer honor won't think less of me,To pull a pipe," "By Jove! I don't," said Binks, and bought the drinks.The moment was so contraband, it gave unto that liquor bar,A zest, he asked the constable to take another neat,But lifting out his ticker, says the bobbie, "Well be quick or 'gar!The sergeant might come whop on me! he's out upon his beat."The constable decanted it, said he, "Howld on until I look,Now fly!" said he, and while they dived again into the night,He fished from out his overcoat, and deftly in his mouth he stuck,A friendly lump of orris root, to make his breath all right.That bobbie was a wily one, the act was rather opportune,For they had scarcely managed to get half-way up the gutWhen he was made aware that he must coin a whited whopper soon,For hark! it was the tramping of the sergeant's heavy foot!Said he, "We must dissimble, or I'm ruined, and a shapable,Excuse I'll have to make!" * * ** * * "What brings the two of you down here?""I'm makin' just a Pres'ner, Sir, he's dhrunk, an' he's incapable,"Exclaimed the bobbie, gripping Binks, just under Binks's ear!'Twas somewhat ominous for Binks, though he protested not, he chewedThe cud of thought, until he saw that sergeant out of sight;He had not comprehended yet, the patronising turpitudeOf bobbies, who will take a treat, "well now," said he, "good night,"But spake that constable, said he, "good night is best for you, ye see,But it won't answer now for me, I darn't let you go,It's quietly, and aisily, and dacently, you'll come wid me,Yer dhrunk, an' yer incapable! I towld the sergeant so."Fitz-Binks fell plump in mire of doubt, 'twas shocking! thus to realize,Such treachery, and subterfuge, of ingrate sneak of sin,But 60 X was bigger in his figure, by a deal of size,And little Binks, was little, so the bobbie ran him in!The sergeant,—he who took the charge—was grave, and staid, particular!He entered Binks upon his book, and sent him to the cell,And Binks did forfeit half a sov., for standing perpendicular,Before the Beak, and leaving court, he cursed that bobbie well!He said the act was scandalous, and of the gutter order, he,—That bobbie was, "Ah whisht! ye see, an' howld yer tongue, shut upIt's fond of me, you ought to be, if I swore ye wor disordherly,It would have cost ye exthra, or you'd maybe be put up!"It used to be a sermonising habit, and methodical,To tag a moral story, with a warning at its endAnd bobbie entertainments in the midnight, might be quodical!So leave him to his duty, if you'd keep him as a friend.

IT was about an hour they call the small, and the mysterious,

An hour wherein the ghosts are wont to take their constitutional,

'Twas twenty-four o'clock; an hour that's oftimes deleterious

To many a liver wetted swell, pugnacious or emotional.

The beggared corporation lights, did flick in the nor'wester gale,

That blistering nose, and finger-tips, were loaded well with sleet,

When Binks harrangued a constable, "Good night, it's cold, you're looking pale,"

From where he backed a lamp-post, at the end of Brunswick Street.

"Ah! Sergeant," said Fitz-Binks, "It's late, or I could treat you decently,

And 'twouldn't be too dusty, if we had a flying drink;

But Chap, of Vic., is strict, they passed in Parliament so recently,"

The bobbie was a thirsty one, he winked a thirsty wink.

"Ha! ha!" said Binks, "You know the lines, so don't be too particular,

There's some back door that's open," said the constable, "you're right;

Just move an' there thro' yondher lane an' hide up perpendicular,

Beyant the lamp, I'll folly whin there's nobody in sight."

The thing was managed gracefully, and with an open sesamè,

The constable had stolen to a quiet bar with Binks,

Produced a clay, said he, "I hope yer honor won't think less of me,

To pull a pipe," "By Jove! I don't," said Binks, and bought the drinks.

The moment was so contraband, it gave unto that liquor bar,

A zest, he asked the constable to take another neat,

But lifting out his ticker, says the bobbie, "Well be quick or 'gar!

The sergeant might come whop on me! he's out upon his beat."

The constable decanted it, said he, "Howld on until I look,

Now fly!" said he, and while they dived again into the night,

He fished from out his overcoat, and deftly in his mouth he stuck,

A friendly lump of orris root, to make his breath all right.

That bobbie was a wily one, the act was rather opportune,

For they had scarcely managed to get half-way up the gut

When he was made aware that he must coin a whited whopper soon,

For hark! it was the tramping of the sergeant's heavy foot!

Said he, "We must dissimble, or I'm ruined, and a shapable,

Excuse I'll have to make!" * * *

* * * "What brings the two of you down here?"

"I'm makin' just a Pres'ner, Sir, he's dhrunk, an' he's incapable,"

Exclaimed the bobbie, gripping Binks, just under Binks's ear!

'Twas somewhat ominous for Binks, though he protested not, he chewed

The cud of thought, until he saw that sergeant out of sight;

He had not comprehended yet, the patronising turpitude

Of bobbies, who will take a treat, "well now," said he, "good night,"

But spake that constable, said he, "good night is best for you, ye see,

But it won't answer now for me, I darn't let you go,

It's quietly, and aisily, and dacently, you'll come wid me,

Yer dhrunk, an' yer incapable! I towld the sergeant so."

Fitz-Binks fell plump in mire of doubt, 'twas shocking! thus to realize,

Such treachery, and subterfuge, of ingrate sneak of sin,

But 60 X was bigger in his figure, by a deal of size,

And little Binks, was little, so the bobbie ran him in!

The sergeant,—he who took the charge—was grave, and staid, particular!

He entered Binks upon his book, and sent him to the cell,

And Binks did forfeit half a sov., for standing perpendicular,

Before the Beak, and leaving court, he cursed that bobbie well!

He said the act was scandalous, and of the gutter order, he,—

That bobbie was, "Ah whisht! ye see, an' howld yer tongue, shut up

It's fond of me, you ought to be, if I swore ye wor disordherly,

It would have cost ye exthra, or you'd maybe be put up!"

It used to be a sermonising habit, and methodical,

To tag a moral story, with a warning at its end

And bobbie entertainments in the midnight, might be quodical!

So leave him to his duty, if you'd keep him as a friend.

A Fugitive KissI

IWAS on the carpet kneeling,And fondly, and with feeling,I pressed her metacarpus,To my osculating lip,When flexor,And extensor,Of stern Parental censor,Incontinent did greet me,And took me near the hip!I rolled into the fender,With broken silk suspender,And motive movement sharp, asHer Pater gave the tip!He didn't back the winner,For sport was not his grip.

IWAS on the carpet kneeling,

And fondly, and with feeling,

I pressed her metacarpus,

To my osculating lip,

When flexor,

And extensor,

Of stern Parental censor,

Incontinent did greet me,

And took me near the hip!

I rolled into the fender,

With broken silk suspender,

And motive movement sharp, as

Her Pater gave the tip!

He didn't back the winner,

For sport was not his grip.

The above brief but touching confession of disastrous failure, recorded by Timothy Pipkins,—a sporting student of St. Jago's Hospital,—is indicative of the Nemesis from an offended fate, that frequently foils the improvident hunter of matrimonial adventure.

The Bedroom Curse

TIM DOOLIN was a well known jock, an active sprite, and light and trim,And time there was, that jocks did funk, to mount, and run the race with him.He won by length, he won by head, he saved the race by nose, and ear,Till all the jocks, around their pints, exclaimed the thing was devilish queer.And TheBut fortune is a gay coquette; by fickle fortune, Doolin lost,Till every one who backed him, soon did find him out a fraud and frost.I've seen him lose at Punchestown, I've seen him last, at Baldoyle too,At Fairyhouse I've seen him fall—his colours then were black and blue.Murdered CockatooHe stood and scratched his head amain, beside the stable door one night;He had been drinking tints of malt, and felt as he were almost tight.A race was on to run next day; he totted up his chance to win,When turning thro' the stable-door, he saw a gentleman within!He thought the thing extremely strange, and asked the man, why he was there,And stoutly gave the hint, that he was there, to sneak, and dose the mare.The gentleman, he laughed a laugh. "I've backed the beast myself, by gum!And you must win, or I will be the loser of a tidy sum.""Well, look," said Doolin, "pon me sowl, I have me doubts that she's in form."The stranger glared at Doolin, and with voice, as of a rising storm,Accused the jock of practices, that were not meet for honest men,And asked him how he won so oft, and could not pass the post again?"Well, yis, yer honor, 'pon me faith, it puzzles me the same as you,That I can't jerk the horse ahead, and win as once I used to do.I never drink before the race. I always pray before I mount:And yet I find it's all the same; my prayers have come to no account!""I used to curse and swear, but, ah, bedad, my swearing days are done!""Then how on earth could you expect to be the man who could get on?""I may not dare to curse and swear. I have a rich, religious aunt,I'm in her will, and I would lose the fortune if I did, and shan't.She often heard me curse and swear; but warning me one day, says she:'If you go on to curse and swear, I'll have no more to do with thee!I've made my will, and left you all my worldly goods, and money, too;I've got it written, signed and sealed, so you be careful what you do!'I promised her, upon my oath, that I would neither curse nor swear,And I have kept my word, and I will keep my word to her, so there!She lent to me a cockatoo, and cautioned me, I must not lack,To treat him well; he's in the room I occupy, till she comes back.""Ah, that, indeed. Well, here's a tip: when in the morning you get up,Keep cursing all the time you dress, and swear at night, before you sup,By this no human ear will catch the oathings that will make you light,And take a load from off your mind, and you will win the race—good night."That very night when he went home, he slyly locked the bedroom door,And up and down around the room he scattered curses, and he swore,He cursed before, he cursed behind, he cursed until his face was red,By dint of cursing, and at last he stripped, and tumbled into bed.Next morning many oaths he made, and sandwiched them with many a curse,That sounded weird, and wry, and strange; his oathings they could not possibly be worse.He cursed because he had to rise, he cursed to leave the bed so nice,And warm, and soft, he cursed because the water was as cold as ice.He cursed around the basin-stand, he cursed the water jug, alas!The towel and the soap he cursed, with oath that almost broke the glass.He cursed a button that was loose, he cursed the thread and needle, new,He cursed the irritating starch, he cursed his washerwoman, too.He curbed his braces—they were tied with bits of string, that broke in twain,He fixed them with a pin; it stuck into his spine—he cursed again;He cursed the postman for his knock—'twas by his tailor he was sent;He cursed the landlady who brought the bill; and asked him for the rent.Before, behind, above, below, at right or left, he was not loathTo drop a detonating curse, or fling an alternating oath.He cursed the razor and the strop, he cursed the wart upon his nose,He cursed his hair that wouldn't grow, he cursed the corns upon his toes.He cursed a stud and button-hole that was too big; and in the street,He saw a burly constable, and cursed the man upon his beat,He cursed the helmet on his head, the number on his collar, too;He cursed the stripe upon his arm, his mittens, and his suit of blue.He cursed his baton right and left, he cursed it also upside down,He cursed him to the county gaol and back again, and into town.He cursed the lining of his sleeve, a bottle in his pocket—whoHad put it there he could not tell—he cursed his aunt, her cockatoo.He cursed the laces of his boots, the cockatoo he cursed again,Again he swore, unlocked the door, and gaily started for the train.Hurrah! he won the race that day, and everything for him went right,And surreptitiously he cursed and swore, and cursed again that night.A painful shocking thing, that men should stoop to acts like this, for fame or pelf.Thro' all my friends there's not a man would act so shocking but himself.His calender grew bright again with fortune's sunlight o'er it cast,But there must be an end to such, and retribution comes at last.His aunt returned to town again; he gave her back her cockatoo,'Twere better he had slain him first; it's what, I think, and so will you.One day a mortuary note did come—alas! his aunt was dead!He buried her with decent haste, and then her latest will was read.But by that testament, he found that he had not been left her purse,It intimated this, that he had taught her cockatoo to curse!It intimated this, that she thro' that, had met her death, alas;And in a codicil expressed a wish they'd send the bird to grass.No mortal eye but his, beheld the deed he then essayed to do—'Twas murder! for he wrung the neck of his dead aunt, her cockatoo,No mortal eye beheld the deed; but things again with him went queer,Till one day looking down the street, he saw a stranger prowling near.The man who told him thus to swear, 'twas on a dark November eve,He knew that stranger held a secret stone for him inside his sleeve;He knew that he had run a score of heavy debt, was due for sin,And darting back, he closed the door. Said he to Bridget "I'm not in.Just say that I am out," said he, and quickly up the stairs he flew,The stranger knocked. "Ah, let me see," and up the stairs he mounted, too.The servant sneaked the key-hole then, and saw a struggle on the bed,Then ran below—"Mavrone, asthore, come up, agrah, the lodger's dead!"The moral is of gentlemen you do not know, you should beware:You should not use your bedroom, for a hiding-place, to curse, and swear.To curse a harmless constable upon his beat, is even worse;'Twas he who caught the jurymen, who gave the verdict on his corse.That shocking room is haunted now; it may not raise a shock in you,But every dark November eve, there comes a shrouded cockatoo,And gliding in his pallid shirt, a wretched spectre doth rehearse,The record of his oathings dire! the cockatoo then shrieks a curse!The man of easy habits then will see the deadly deed anew,Of how the neck was wrung by him, who slew his aunt, her cockatoo.The man of easy habits then, will see the evil sprite of gloom,Come prowling for his guilty soul, and bear it down the trap of doom.The landlady can never make the lodgers in that room content,They never stay, beyond the day that she has asked them for the rent,But men are not so wicked now; they will not swear an oath for pelf.They're much about the same as you—almost exactly like myself.

TIM DOOLIN was a well known jock, an active sprite, and light and trim,

And time there was, that jocks did funk, to mount, and run the race with him.

He won by length, he won by head, he saved the race by nose, and ear,

Till all the jocks, around their pints, exclaimed the thing was devilish queer.

And The

But fortune is a gay coquette; by fickle fortune, Doolin lost,Till every one who backed him, soon did find him out a fraud and frost.I've seen him lose at Punchestown, I've seen him last, at Baldoyle too,At Fairyhouse I've seen him fall—his colours then were black and blue.

But fortune is a gay coquette; by fickle fortune, Doolin lost,

Till every one who backed him, soon did find him out a fraud and frost.

I've seen him lose at Punchestown, I've seen him last, at Baldoyle too,

At Fairyhouse I've seen him fall—his colours then were black and blue.

Murdered Cockatoo

He stood and scratched his head amain, beside the stable door one night;He had been drinking tints of malt, and felt as he were almost tight.A race was on to run next day; he totted up his chance to win,When turning thro' the stable-door, he saw a gentleman within!

He stood and scratched his head amain, beside the stable door one night;

He had been drinking tints of malt, and felt as he were almost tight.

A race was on to run next day; he totted up his chance to win,

When turning thro' the stable-door, he saw a gentleman within!

He thought the thing extremely strange, and asked the man, why he was there,And stoutly gave the hint, that he was there, to sneak, and dose the mare.The gentleman, he laughed a laugh. "I've backed the beast myself, by gum!And you must win, or I will be the loser of a tidy sum."

He thought the thing extremely strange, and asked the man, why he was there,

And stoutly gave the hint, that he was there, to sneak, and dose the mare.

The gentleman, he laughed a laugh. "I've backed the beast myself, by gum!

And you must win, or I will be the loser of a tidy sum."

"Well, look," said Doolin, "pon me sowl, I have me doubts that she's in form."The stranger glared at Doolin, and with voice, as of a rising storm,Accused the jock of practices, that were not meet for honest men,And asked him how he won so oft, and could not pass the post again?"Well, yis, yer honor, 'pon me faith, it puzzles me the same as you,That I can't jerk the horse ahead, and win as once I used to do.I never drink before the race. I always pray before I mount:And yet I find it's all the same; my prayers have come to no account!"

"Well, look," said Doolin, "pon me sowl, I have me doubts that she's in form."

The stranger glared at Doolin, and with voice, as of a rising storm,

Accused the jock of practices, that were not meet for honest men,

And asked him how he won so oft, and could not pass the post again?

"Well, yis, yer honor, 'pon me faith, it puzzles me the same as you,

That I can't jerk the horse ahead, and win as once I used to do.

I never drink before the race. I always pray before I mount:

And yet I find it's all the same; my prayers have come to no account!"

"I used to curse and swear, but, ah, bedad, my swearing days are done!""Then how on earth could you expect to be the man who could get on?""I may not dare to curse and swear. I have a rich, religious aunt,I'm in her will, and I would lose the fortune if I did, and shan't.She often heard me curse and swear; but warning me one day, says she:'If you go on to curse and swear, I'll have no more to do with thee!I've made my will, and left you all my worldly goods, and money, too;I've got it written, signed and sealed, so you be careful what you do!'I promised her, upon my oath, that I would neither curse nor swear,And I have kept my word, and I will keep my word to her, so there!She lent to me a cockatoo, and cautioned me, I must not lack,To treat him well; he's in the room I occupy, till she comes back."

"I used to curse and swear, but, ah, bedad, my swearing days are done!"

"Then how on earth could you expect to be the man who could get on?"

"I may not dare to curse and swear. I have a rich, religious aunt,

I'm in her will, and I would lose the fortune if I did, and shan't.

She often heard me curse and swear; but warning me one day, says she:

'If you go on to curse and swear, I'll have no more to do with thee!

I've made my will, and left you all my worldly goods, and money, too;

I've got it written, signed and sealed, so you be careful what you do!'

I promised her, upon my oath, that I would neither curse nor swear,

And I have kept my word, and I will keep my word to her, so there!

She lent to me a cockatoo, and cautioned me, I must not lack,

To treat him well; he's in the room I occupy, till she comes back."

"Ah, that, indeed. Well, here's a tip: when in the morning you get up,Keep cursing all the time you dress, and swear at night, before you sup,By this no human ear will catch the oathings that will make you light,And take a load from off your mind, and you will win the race—good night."

"Ah, that, indeed. Well, here's a tip: when in the morning you get up,

Keep cursing all the time you dress, and swear at night, before you sup,

By this no human ear will catch the oathings that will make you light,

And take a load from off your mind, and you will win the race—good night."

That very night when he went home, he slyly locked the bedroom door,And up and down around the room he scattered curses, and he swore,He cursed before, he cursed behind, he cursed until his face was red,By dint of cursing, and at last he stripped, and tumbled into bed.Next morning many oaths he made, and sandwiched them with many a curse,That sounded weird, and wry, and strange; his oathings they could not possibly be worse.He cursed because he had to rise, he cursed to leave the bed so nice,And warm, and soft, he cursed because the water was as cold as ice.He cursed around the basin-stand, he cursed the water jug, alas!The towel and the soap he cursed, with oath that almost broke the glass.He cursed a button that was loose, he cursed the thread and needle, new,He cursed the irritating starch, he cursed his washerwoman, too.He curbed his braces—they were tied with bits of string, that broke in twain,He fixed them with a pin; it stuck into his spine—he cursed again;He cursed the postman for his knock—'twas by his tailor he was sent;He cursed the landlady who brought the bill; and asked him for the rent.Before, behind, above, below, at right or left, he was not loathTo drop a detonating curse, or fling an alternating oath.He cursed the razor and the strop, he cursed the wart upon his nose,He cursed his hair that wouldn't grow, he cursed the corns upon his toes.He cursed a stud and button-hole that was too big; and in the street,He saw a burly constable, and cursed the man upon his beat,He cursed the helmet on his head, the number on his collar, too;He cursed the stripe upon his arm, his mittens, and his suit of blue.He cursed his baton right and left, he cursed it also upside down,He cursed him to the county gaol and back again, and into town.He cursed the lining of his sleeve, a bottle in his pocket—whoHad put it there he could not tell—he cursed his aunt, her cockatoo.He cursed the laces of his boots, the cockatoo he cursed again,Again he swore, unlocked the door, and gaily started for the train.Hurrah! he won the race that day, and everything for him went right,And surreptitiously he cursed and swore, and cursed again that night.

That very night when he went home, he slyly locked the bedroom door,

And up and down around the room he scattered curses, and he swore,

He cursed before, he cursed behind, he cursed until his face was red,

By dint of cursing, and at last he stripped, and tumbled into bed.

Next morning many oaths he made, and sandwiched them with many a curse,

That sounded weird, and wry, and strange; his oathings they could not possibly be worse.

He cursed because he had to rise, he cursed to leave the bed so nice,

And warm, and soft, he cursed because the water was as cold as ice.

He cursed around the basin-stand, he cursed the water jug, alas!

The towel and the soap he cursed, with oath that almost broke the glass.

He cursed a button that was loose, he cursed the thread and needle, new,

He cursed the irritating starch, he cursed his washerwoman, too.

He curbed his braces—they were tied with bits of string, that broke in twain,

He fixed them with a pin; it stuck into his spine—he cursed again;

He cursed the postman for his knock—'twas by his tailor he was sent;

He cursed the landlady who brought the bill; and asked him for the rent.

Before, behind, above, below, at right or left, he was not loath

To drop a detonating curse, or fling an alternating oath.

He cursed the razor and the strop, he cursed the wart upon his nose,

He cursed his hair that wouldn't grow, he cursed the corns upon his toes.

He cursed a stud and button-hole that was too big; and in the street,

He saw a burly constable, and cursed the man upon his beat,

He cursed the helmet on his head, the number on his collar, too;

He cursed the stripe upon his arm, his mittens, and his suit of blue.

He cursed his baton right and left, he cursed it also upside down,

He cursed him to the county gaol and back again, and into town.

He cursed the lining of his sleeve, a bottle in his pocket—who

Had put it there he could not tell—he cursed his aunt, her cockatoo.

He cursed the laces of his boots, the cockatoo he cursed again,

Again he swore, unlocked the door, and gaily started for the train.

Hurrah! he won the race that day, and everything for him went right,

And surreptitiously he cursed and swore, and cursed again that night.

A painful shocking thing, that men should stoop to acts like this, for fame or pelf.Thro' all my friends there's not a man would act so shocking but himself.His calender grew bright again with fortune's sunlight o'er it cast,But there must be an end to such, and retribution comes at last.His aunt returned to town again; he gave her back her cockatoo,'Twere better he had slain him first; it's what, I think, and so will you.One day a mortuary note did come—alas! his aunt was dead!He buried her with decent haste, and then her latest will was read.But by that testament, he found that he had not been left her purse,It intimated this, that he had taught her cockatoo to curse!It intimated this, that she thro' that, had met her death, alas;And in a codicil expressed a wish they'd send the bird to grass.

A painful shocking thing, that men should stoop to acts like this, for fame or pelf.

Thro' all my friends there's not a man would act so shocking but himself.

His calender grew bright again with fortune's sunlight o'er it cast,

But there must be an end to such, and retribution comes at last.

His aunt returned to town again; he gave her back her cockatoo,

'Twere better he had slain him first; it's what, I think, and so will you.

One day a mortuary note did come—alas! his aunt was dead!

He buried her with decent haste, and then her latest will was read.

But by that testament, he found that he had not been left her purse,

It intimated this, that he had taught her cockatoo to curse!

It intimated this, that she thro' that, had met her death, alas;

And in a codicil expressed a wish they'd send the bird to grass.

No mortal eye but his, beheld the deed he then essayed to do—'Twas murder! for he wrung the neck of his dead aunt, her cockatoo,No mortal eye beheld the deed; but things again with him went queer,Till one day looking down the street, he saw a stranger prowling near.The man who told him thus to swear, 'twas on a dark November eve,He knew that stranger held a secret stone for him inside his sleeve;He knew that he had run a score of heavy debt, was due for sin,And darting back, he closed the door. Said he to Bridget "I'm not in.Just say that I am out," said he, and quickly up the stairs he flew,The stranger knocked. "Ah, let me see," and up the stairs he mounted, too.The servant sneaked the key-hole then, and saw a struggle on the bed,Then ran below—"Mavrone, asthore, come up, agrah, the lodger's dead!"

No mortal eye but his, beheld the deed he then essayed to do—

'Twas murder! for he wrung the neck of his dead aunt, her cockatoo,

No mortal eye beheld the deed; but things again with him went queer,

Till one day looking down the street, he saw a stranger prowling near.

The man who told him thus to swear, 'twas on a dark November eve,

He knew that stranger held a secret stone for him inside his sleeve;

He knew that he had run a score of heavy debt, was due for sin,

And darting back, he closed the door. Said he to Bridget "I'm not in.

Just say that I am out," said he, and quickly up the stairs he flew,

The stranger knocked. "Ah, let me see," and up the stairs he mounted, too.

The servant sneaked the key-hole then, and saw a struggle on the bed,

Then ran below—"Mavrone, asthore, come up, agrah, the lodger's dead!"

The moral is of gentlemen you do not know, you should beware:You should not use your bedroom, for a hiding-place, to curse, and swear.To curse a harmless constable upon his beat, is even worse;'Twas he who caught the jurymen, who gave the verdict on his corse.That shocking room is haunted now; it may not raise a shock in you,But every dark November eve, there comes a shrouded cockatoo,And gliding in his pallid shirt, a wretched spectre doth rehearse,The record of his oathings dire! the cockatoo then shrieks a curse!The man of easy habits then will see the deadly deed anew,Of how the neck was wrung by him, who slew his aunt, her cockatoo.The man of easy habits then, will see the evil sprite of gloom,Come prowling for his guilty soul, and bear it down the trap of doom.

The moral is of gentlemen you do not know, you should beware:

You should not use your bedroom, for a hiding-place, to curse, and swear.

To curse a harmless constable upon his beat, is even worse;

'Twas he who caught the jurymen, who gave the verdict on his corse.

That shocking room is haunted now; it may not raise a shock in you,

But every dark November eve, there comes a shrouded cockatoo,

And gliding in his pallid shirt, a wretched spectre doth rehearse,

The record of his oathings dire! the cockatoo then shrieks a curse!

The man of easy habits then will see the deadly deed anew,

Of how the neck was wrung by him, who slew his aunt, her cockatoo.

The man of easy habits then, will see the evil sprite of gloom,

Come prowling for his guilty soul, and bear it down the trap of doom.

The landlady can never make the lodgers in that room content,They never stay, beyond the day that she has asked them for the rent,But men are not so wicked now; they will not swear an oath for pelf.They're much about the same as you—almost exactly like myself.

The landlady can never make the lodgers in that room content,

They never stay, beyond the day that she has asked them for the rent,

But men are not so wicked now; they will not swear an oath for pelf.

They're much about the same as you—almost exactly like myself.

A Gun Solo

BY a lonely dried up fountain,In a purple Irish mountain,My talk was interesting,With a female of that spot,When she sprang from off my knees;For rasping thro' the trees,A bullet stopped our jesting,I started at the shot!"It's my husband's gun!" she murmured,I sauntered from the spot!!

BY a lonely dried up fountain,

In a purple Irish mountain,

My talk was interesting,

With a female of that spot,

When she sprang from off my knees;

For rasping thro' the trees,

A bullet stopped our jesting,

I started at the shot!

"It's my husband's gun!" she murmured,I sauntered from the spot!!

"It's my husband's gun!" she murmured,

I sauntered from the spot!!

The semi grand pianoI

IWAS walking thro' the darkness ofThe pleasant town of Birr,'Twas late, and very lonely,You could not hear a stirWhen turning round a corner, I heard the music sweet,Of a semi-grand piano, and a singing down the street.

IWAS walking thro' the darkness of

The pleasant town of Birr,

'Twas late, and very lonely,

You could not hear a stir

When turning round a corner, I heard the music sweet,

Of a semi-grand piano, and a singing down the street.

You will say it's not uncommon to hear the pleasant sound,Of a semi-grand piano upon a midnight round,But O the silver music, of the voice that mingled there,With the semi-grand piano, was wonderful, and rare!I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain,I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again,And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd"I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade."And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill,All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill,I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old,Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold!It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same,It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name,And if it doesn't bore you, I'll sing you just a verse,You'll say it might be better; but I think it might be worse."O lady who was singingWith happy semi-grand,A troubadour is waiting,He's asking for your hand,Carrissima! Mia! Agrah!From other lands I roam,Be ready with the trousseau,I'll come, and take you home!Recordar, how I love you,This lay of mine will tell,O willow! willow! wirrasthrue!Mavrone! I love you well!L'ami l'amo l'amantibusRi foldherando dum,Mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah!Get up your traps, and come!"It wasn't all Italian, this song of mine you see,It wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee,'Twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made,I think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade.I felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new,'Twas making an impression, a thing I always do,As tho' the middle ages, were back again in Birr,Hark! hark behind her lattice, at last I heard a stir!O there's nothing like the feeling that passes through the mindWhen you know a lovely lady is pulling up her blind,And my heart was all a-flutter, in that lonely street of Birr,When I heard the curtains rustle, with the sylphid hand of her.I saw the window open, I saw a face to scarce!I heard a voice that muttered "What are ye doin' there?"And over me was emptied a full and flowing can!Which made me hurry homewards, a wet and wiser man!I sang my song that midnight, with voice of dulcet tone,My dulcet voice next morning was like a bagpipe groan,A blanket round my shoulders, my feet were in a pan,Some doctor's stuff beside me, a sad and wiser man!

You will say it's not uncommon to hear the pleasant sound,

Of a semi-grand piano upon a midnight round,

But O the silver music, of the voice that mingled there,

With the semi-grand piano, was wonderful, and rare!

I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain,I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again,And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd"I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade."And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill,All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill,I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old,Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold!It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same,It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name,And if it doesn't bore you, I'll sing you just a verse,You'll say it might be better; but I think it might be worse.

I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain,

I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again,

And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd

"I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade."

And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill,

All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill,

I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old,

Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold!

It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same,

It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name,

And if it doesn't bore you, I'll sing you just a verse,

You'll say it might be better; but I think it might be worse.

"O lady who was singingWith happy semi-grand,A troubadour is waiting,He's asking for your hand,Carrissima! Mia! Agrah!From other lands I roam,Be ready with the trousseau,I'll come, and take you home!

"O lady who was singing

With happy semi-grand,

A troubadour is waiting,

He's asking for your hand,

Carrissima! Mia! Agrah!

From other lands I roam,

Be ready with the trousseau,

I'll come, and take you home!

Recordar, how I love you,This lay of mine will tell,O willow! willow! wirrasthrue!Mavrone! I love you well!L'ami l'amo l'amantibusRi foldherando dum,Mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah!Get up your traps, and come!"

Recordar, how I love you,

This lay of mine will tell,

O willow! willow! wirrasthrue!

Mavrone! I love you well!

L'ami l'amo l'amantibus

Ri foldherando dum,

Mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah!

Get up your traps, and come!"

It wasn't all Italian, this song of mine you see,It wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee,'Twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made,I think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade.I felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new,'Twas making an impression, a thing I always do,As tho' the middle ages, were back again in Birr,Hark! hark behind her lattice, at last I heard a stir!

It wasn't all Italian, this song of mine you see,

It wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee,

'Twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made,

I think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade.

I felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new,

'Twas making an impression, a thing I always do,

As tho' the middle ages, were back again in Birr,

Hark! hark behind her lattice, at last I heard a stir!

O there's nothing like the feeling that passes through the mindWhen you know a lovely lady is pulling up her blind,And my heart was all a-flutter, in that lonely street of Birr,When I heard the curtains rustle, with the sylphid hand of her.

O there's nothing like the feeling that passes through the mind

When you know a lovely lady is pulling up her blind,

And my heart was all a-flutter, in that lonely street of Birr,

When I heard the curtains rustle, with the sylphid hand of her.

I saw the window open, I saw a face to scarce!I heard a voice that muttered "What are ye doin' there?"And over me was emptied a full and flowing can!Which made me hurry homewards, a wet and wiser man!

I saw the window open, I saw a face to scarce!

I heard a voice that muttered "What are ye doin' there?"

And over me was emptied a full and flowing can!

Which made me hurry homewards, a wet and wiser man!

I sang my song that midnight, with voice of dulcet tone,My dulcet voice next morning was like a bagpipe groan,A blanket round my shoulders, my feet were in a pan,Some doctor's stuff beside me, a sad and wiser man!

I sang my song that midnight, with voice of dulcet tone,

My dulcet voice next morning was like a bagpipe groan,

A blanket round my shoulders, my feet were in a pan,

Some doctor's stuff beside me, a sad and wiser man!

canticrank

IF you have æsthetic notions of the classic beauty rare,You would never for a moment say that Nature took the prize,For the elegance of figure, or tint upon her hair,Of Mother Becca Canticrank, you wouldn't like her eyes;Her nose you couldn't admirate,Her teeth are in a chippy state,Her voice is like a corncrake, her manner like a knife;A cutting way of dealingWith sentimental feeling,You wouldn't altogether care to choose her for a wife.But ah! she is the casket of a compensating excellence,The odour of a sanctity peculiarly her own,She knows she is, without a doubt,Intensely moral out and out,And so she sits in judgment on a self-constructed throne.As Censor of corruptousness,Of Nature in voluptousness,She rails in holy horror, with a Puritanic rage,That beauty's form is shocking,In semi-raiment mocking,Her own upholstered scragginess in picture or on stage.Her loathing is the ballet;For lo! from court and alley,The thousand Cinderellas are fairy clad and bright,A direr deed of sinning—By dint of beauty winningTheir bread, than by the needle, in the murky candlelight,O Mother Becca Canticrank,The ways of earth are very rank;But women live by beauty, intelligence, and toil.And toil is overcrowded, Mam,Intelligence is got by cram;And what's for lovely Sally of the garret, shall she spoil?No! pray for her, and set her,As toiler for the sweater,Or freeze her in the winter, on your doorstep in the street,With penance to her bones,By whiting up the stones,That you may moil her handiwork with smirch of dirty feet.Or pray for her, and crape her,As vestal to the draper,To do the woful penance, of Canticranks to please;Till worn out and weary,Unto her bedroom eyrie,She staggers up at midnight, then bring her to her knees;Do anything, but let herEnjoy a way, to betterThe miserable midnight of her life, into the dayOf brighter fortune's light;Aye, crush her back to night,And teach her how to thank you, by kneeling down to pray.Yes, hound away the ballet,Destroy the chance of Sally,For she has many prizes in the marriage market won.By hypocritic prudity,Go boom the semi-nudity,Of drawing room and salon, for the first and second son.

IF you have æsthetic notions of the classic beauty rare,

You would never for a moment say that Nature took the prize,

For the elegance of figure, or tint upon her hair,

Of Mother Becca Canticrank, you wouldn't like her eyes;

Her nose you couldn't admirate,

Her teeth are in a chippy state,

Her voice is like a corncrake, her manner like a knife;

A cutting way of dealing

With sentimental feeling,

You wouldn't altogether care to choose her for a wife.

But ah! she is the casket of a compensating excellence,

The odour of a sanctity peculiarly her own,

She knows she is, without a doubt,

Intensely moral out and out,

And so she sits in judgment on a self-constructed throne.

As Censor of corruptousness,

Of Nature in voluptousness,

She rails in holy horror, with a Puritanic rage,

That beauty's form is shocking,

In semi-raiment mocking,

Her own upholstered scragginess in picture or on stage.

Her loathing is the ballet;

For lo! from court and alley,

The thousand Cinderellas are fairy clad and bright,

A direr deed of sinning—

By dint of beauty winning

Their bread, than by the needle, in the murky candlelight,

O Mother Becca Canticrank,

The ways of earth are very rank;

But women live by beauty, intelligence, and toil.

And toil is overcrowded, Mam,

Intelligence is got by cram;

And what's for lovely Sally of the garret, shall she spoil?

No! pray for her, and set her,

As toiler for the sweater,

Or freeze her in the winter, on your doorstep in the street,

With penance to her bones,

By whiting up the stones,

That you may moil her handiwork with smirch of dirty feet.

Or pray for her, and crape her,

As vestal to the draper,

To do the woful penance, of Canticranks to please;

Till worn out and weary,

Unto her bedroom eyrie,

She staggers up at midnight, then bring her to her knees;

Do anything, but let her

Enjoy a way, to better

The miserable midnight of her life, into the day

Of brighter fortune's light;

Aye, crush her back to night,

And teach her how to thank you, by kneeling down to pray.

Yes, hound away the ballet,

Destroy the chance of Sally,

For she has many prizes in the marriage market won.

By hypocritic prudity,

Go boom the semi-nudity,

Of drawing room and salon, for the first and second son.

Caught in the breach

OF fascinating parts,He played with female hearts;'Twas reprehensible, as you may guess;But still it was his way,Continued he to play,Until a maiden asked him for redress,And folly bore the fruit,Of breach of promise suit,He owns a couple of thousand pounds the less,He's a sorry man to-day, he does confess,And the wily way of woman he does bless,And his pipe is all that he will now caress,He doesn't care to think of it, the mess!

OF fascinating parts,

He played with female hearts;

'Twas reprehensible, as you may guess;

But still it was his way,

Continued he to play,

Until a maiden asked him for redress,

And folly bore the fruit,

Of breach of promise suit,

He owns a couple of thousand pounds the less,

He's a sorry man to-day, he does confess,

And the wily way of woman he does bless,

And his pipe is all that he will now caress,

He doesn't care to think of it, the mess!

A Kleptomaniacs doom

THE Lord of Masherdudom wore on his essencèd curlsA golden zone of strawberry leaves, and rays with pips of pearls,Tho' he was called an Englishman his blood was Prussian blue,Which unto his complexion gave a gallimaufry hue,The Earl of Masherdudom, he was just as he began,He seemed in perpetuity, a fossil ladies' man,And yet he wasn't what you'd call an absolute success,He hankered to be more, than most; he wasn't, he was less,For he was poisoned with the grip of miser hungered greed,And racking rent upon the screw, he made his tenants bleed.He loved his Parson; for he taught that gold was dross, and scutch,To men who of the sinful chink, had not got overmuch;He taught by unctions homily, how really false, the leavenOf gold is to a tenant here, compared with gold in Heaven;But man with base ingratitude is rife, they did not blessThe Earl of Masherdudom, so he wasn't a success.One day 'twas ruminating thus, alone, and in his club,"My politics do fail" he said "to fail, aye there's the rub,I was a high conservative; I am, what am I now?An India rubber ball of wind, a pinhole in my brow,Evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust,A something must be done I wot, I wis a something must;"He took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck,He poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck,Into his æsophagus then decanting it straightwayHe lit a weed,—he was a man who never smoked a clay,—"Oddsbodkins to that liberal!"—He swore in antient guiseOf quaintly oath—"He's more than I, I wot, for he is wiseUnto the leading, and the lightThat gives to men a glimOf what they know is just, I'm butA farthing dip to him,"Twas thro' his indignation he did make a vulgar slipAnd coined so rude a simile,—in re the farthing dip;"I find my brains have broken loose, my occiputs to let,But ha! I've got a last resource, that none may wot of yet,I'll take my diamond ring to-night, and use it round his panes,And in a mask I'll burgle him, and steal his liberal brains!"He quaffed the glorious fizz again, a swill both deep and strongNor witted he, nor wotted he, it was a lawless wrongTo steal another's brains. He then invested in some crape,And putty, thus to make his nose more liberal of shape;He turned his coat, its lining was of party colored trim,And got a life preserver "now I'll go and burgle him!"That nightHe sneaked the toepath o'er,With serpentine device,And round a postal pillar red,He scouted slyly twice,Until on india rubber soles,At length he reached the goal,And up the garden wallHe clomb,And down the wall he stole!Then knotting on his mask of crape, with spry ambition fain,He slid, and worked his diamond ring around the window pane,He crept into the servant's hall, no maid, or cook was there;He took his boots, and gaiters off, and climbed along the stair;He sought to catch the banister, to guide his pilot fist;But headlong down the flight he fell, the banister he missed!And lo! from every room above, the shrieks of horror rose,From girls in papered tresses, bereft of daylight clothes,And full for twenty minutes by the clock, their cries increase,Of "ho! Police" and "robbers hi!" and "murder ho Police!"The butler fired a pistol shot, the cook discharged a spit!The boots let fly a bootjack, and the footman all his kit!The groom ran down the stable stairs with horsey oathings dire,And a constable came knocking said he "are you's on fire?"He put his bull's eye on him "Ha! well here's a putty case!You needn't hide, behind that putty nose upon your face;I'm on the 'wanted' tack for you a couple of months or three,So don't you be disorderly, move on, and come with me,"They put him on his country, and the evidence was queer,But said his Lordship solemnly,"The crime that we have here,Is rare in English jurisprud', a noble drinks, and goesWith mask of crape upon his eyes, and putty on his nose,To burgle certain premises, but drink being in his head,Mistook the house, attacked his own, and burgled it instead!Now this is queer; but I have here, a very antient law,And from its context, you will mark, I this deduction draw,That should a man by suicide, attempt to sneak away,From curses that grow thick on him, we make the coward stay,And if a man by putty nose, and mask, and diamond ring,Do burgle his own home, It's just a similar sort of thing,And so unto the upper house, for thy remaining years,I sentence thee!" and with his wig, the judge mopped up his tears.

THE Lord of Masherdudom wore on his essencèd curls

A golden zone of strawberry leaves, and rays with pips of pearls,

Tho' he was called an Englishman his blood was Prussian blue,

Which unto his complexion gave a gallimaufry hue,

The Earl of Masherdudom, he was just as he began,

He seemed in perpetuity, a fossil ladies' man,

And yet he wasn't what you'd call an absolute success,

He hankered to be more, than most; he wasn't, he was less,

For he was poisoned with the grip of miser hungered greed,

And racking rent upon the screw, he made his tenants bleed.

He loved his Parson; for he taught that gold was dross, and scutch,To men who of the sinful chink, had not got overmuch;He taught by unctions homily, how really false, the leavenOf gold is to a tenant here, compared with gold in Heaven;But man with base ingratitude is rife, they did not blessThe Earl of Masherdudom, so he wasn't a success.One day 'twas ruminating thus, alone, and in his club,"My politics do fail" he said "to fail, aye there's the rub,I was a high conservative; I am, what am I now?An India rubber ball of wind, a pinhole in my brow,Evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust,A something must be done I wot, I wis a something must;"He took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck,He poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck,Into his æsophagus then decanting it straightwayHe lit a weed,—he was a man who never smoked a clay,—

He loved his Parson; for he taught that gold was dross, and scutch,

To men who of the sinful chink, had not got overmuch;

He taught by unctions homily, how really false, the leaven

Of gold is to a tenant here, compared with gold in Heaven;

But man with base ingratitude is rife, they did not bless

The Earl of Masherdudom, so he wasn't a success.

One day 'twas ruminating thus, alone, and in his club,

"My politics do fail" he said "to fail, aye there's the rub,

I was a high conservative; I am, what am I now?

An India rubber ball of wind, a pinhole in my brow,

Evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust,

A something must be done I wot, I wis a something must;"

He took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck,

He poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck,

Into his æsophagus then decanting it straightway

He lit a weed,—he was a man who never smoked a clay,—

"Oddsbodkins to that liberal!"—He swore in antient guise

Of quaintly oath—"He's more than I, I wot, for he is wise

Unto the leading, and the lightThat gives to men a glimOf what they know is just, I'm butA farthing dip to him,"Twas thro' his indignation he did make a vulgar slipAnd coined so rude a simile,—in re the farthing dip;"I find my brains have broken loose, my occiputs to let,But ha! I've got a last resource, that none may wot of yet,I'll take my diamond ring to-night, and use it round his panes,And in a mask I'll burgle him, and steal his liberal brains!"

That gives to men a glim

Of what they know is just, I'm but

A farthing dip to him,"

Twas thro' his indignation he did make a vulgar slip

And coined so rude a simile,—in re the farthing dip;

"I find my brains have broken loose, my occiputs to let,

But ha! I've got a last resource, that none may wot of yet,

I'll take my diamond ring to-night, and use it round his panes,

And in a mask I'll burgle him, and steal his liberal brains!"

He quaffed the glorious fizz again, a swill both deep and strongNor witted he, nor wotted he, it was a lawless wrongTo steal another's brains. He then invested in some crape,And putty, thus to make his nose more liberal of shape;He turned his coat, its lining was of party colored trim,And got a life preserver "now I'll go and burgle him!"

He quaffed the glorious fizz again, a swill both deep and strong

Nor witted he, nor wotted he, it was a lawless wrong

To steal another's brains. He then invested in some crape,

And putty, thus to make his nose more liberal of shape;

He turned his coat, its lining was of party colored trim,

And got a life preserver "now I'll go and burgle him!"

That nightHe sneaked the toepath o'er,With serpentine device,And round a postal pillar red,He scouted slyly twice,Until on india rubber soles,At length he reached the goal,And up the garden wallHe clomb,And down the wall he stole!

That night

He sneaked the toepath o'er,

With serpentine device,

And round a postal pillar red,

He scouted slyly twice,

Until on india rubber soles,

At length he reached the goal,

And up the garden wall

He clomb,

And down the wall he stole!

Then knotting on his mask of crape, with spry ambition fain,He slid, and worked his diamond ring around the window pane,He crept into the servant's hall, no maid, or cook was there;He took his boots, and gaiters off, and climbed along the stair;He sought to catch the banister, to guide his pilot fist;But headlong down the flight he fell, the banister he missed!

Then knotting on his mask of crape, with spry ambition fain,

He slid, and worked his diamond ring around the window pane,

He crept into the servant's hall, no maid, or cook was there;

He took his boots, and gaiters off, and climbed along the stair;

He sought to catch the banister, to guide his pilot fist;

But headlong down the flight he fell, the banister he missed!

And lo! from every room above, the shrieks of horror rose,From girls in papered tresses, bereft of daylight clothes,And full for twenty minutes by the clock, their cries increase,Of "ho! Police" and "robbers hi!" and "murder ho Police!"The butler fired a pistol shot, the cook discharged a spit!The boots let fly a bootjack, and the footman all his kit!The groom ran down the stable stairs with horsey oathings dire,And a constable came knocking said he "are you's on fire?"

And lo! from every room above, the shrieks of horror rose,

From girls in papered tresses, bereft of daylight clothes,

And full for twenty minutes by the clock, their cries increase,

Of "ho! Police" and "robbers hi!" and "murder ho Police!"

The butler fired a pistol shot, the cook discharged a spit!

The boots let fly a bootjack, and the footman all his kit!

The groom ran down the stable stairs with horsey oathings dire,

And a constable came knocking said he "are you's on fire?"

He put his bull's eye on him "Ha! well here's a putty case!You needn't hide, behind that putty nose upon your face;I'm on the 'wanted' tack for you a couple of months or three,So don't you be disorderly, move on, and come with me,"They put him on his country, and the evidence was queer,But said his Lordship solemnly,

He put his bull's eye on him "Ha! well here's a putty case!

You needn't hide, behind that putty nose upon your face;

I'm on the 'wanted' tack for you a couple of months or three,

So don't you be disorderly, move on, and come with me,"

They put him on his country, and the evidence was queer,

But said his Lordship solemnly,

"The crime that we have here,Is rare in English jurisprud', a noble drinks, and goesWith mask of crape upon his eyes, and putty on his nose,To burgle certain premises, but drink being in his head,Mistook the house, attacked his own, and burgled it instead!Now this is queer; but I have here, a very antient law,And from its context, you will mark, I this deduction draw,That should a man by suicide, attempt to sneak away,From curses that grow thick on him, we make the coward stay,And if a man by putty nose, and mask, and diamond ring,Do burgle his own home, It's just a similar sort of thing,

"The crime that we have here,

Is rare in English jurisprud', a noble drinks, and goes

With mask of crape upon his eyes, and putty on his nose,

To burgle certain premises, but drink being in his head,

Mistook the house, attacked his own, and burgled it instead!

Now this is queer; but I have here, a very antient law,

And from its context, you will mark, I this deduction draw,

That should a man by suicide, attempt to sneak away,

From curses that grow thick on him, we make the coward stay,

And if a man by putty nose, and mask, and diamond ring,

Do burgle his own home, It's just a similar sort of thing,

And so unto the upper house, for thy remaining years,I sentence thee!" and with his wig, the judge mopped up his tears.

And so unto the upper house, for thy remaining years,

I sentence thee!" and with his wig, the judge mopped up his tears.

An ill wind blew him good!

I WAS to the windward walking,Of love and marriage talking,When, zephyr like a feather,Took my topper on its wingAnd I hollo'd! and I hollo'd!While another fellow followed,It stopped, they came together,With his foot upon the thing!Æsthetic oaths I uttered,A threat for damage muttered,And my popping of the question,Had also lifted wing.She's wedded to another,And now I cannot smother,My blessing on that zephyr,And that fugitive top hat,For had I not been checked,My happiness was wrecked,I wouldn't be so rosyTo-day, and round and fat.

I WAS to the windward walking,

Of love and marriage talking,

When, zephyr like a feather,

Took my topper on its wing

And I hollo'd! and I hollo'd!

While another fellow followed,

It stopped, they came together,

With his foot upon the thing!

Æsthetic oaths I uttered,

A threat for damage muttered,

And my popping of the question,

Had also lifted wing.

She's wedded to another,And now I cannot smother,My blessing on that zephyr,And that fugitive top hat,For had I not been checked,My happiness was wrecked,I wouldn't be so rosyTo-day, and round and fat.

She's wedded to another,

And now I cannot smother,

My blessing on that zephyr,

And that fugitive top hat,

For had I not been checked,

My happiness was wrecked,

I wouldn't be so rosy

To-day, and round and fat.

The Ghost of Hiram Smike

SHE was a dainty lady, with golden hair, and creamOf roses, her complexion, belike a charming dream.Her eyes were sapphire lighted, her lips, with peachen bloom,Paterre of pearls were framing, but in her heart a tomb;For many loves lay buried, that cemet'ry below—O fie on it for ladies, with love, to trifle so.At last unto a stranger, her stony heart, did strike,His wealth was most romantic, his name was Hiram Smike.'Twas on her mother's sofa he looked at her, said he,"I'm kinder sweet on you, love, will you accept of me?I've travelled half this orange, and never saw your likes;I calculate you oughter join the wigwams of the Smikes."His wealth was most romantic, she answered him with tact,Said he, "I'm off to-morrow, my trunk is ready packed;I must be off to 'Frisco, to see my corn is barned,Don't marry in my absence, for if you do, I'm darned!Now play some tune, that's proper, to show that you're engaged,Expressive of your promise, and how your heart is caged;Strike up some soothin ballad, to tell how you'll be true,And I'll work in a chorus, of Yankee-doodle-do."Her fairy fingers wandered, along the ivory keys,Of her new rosewood cottage, like warble thro' the trees;She sang, that she'd be faithful, all in a soothing strain,While he worked in a chorus—and then he crossed the main.It was a level twelve months, a fortnight, and a day,Since Hiram Smike departed, and yet he stayed away;But she did wait no longer, and they were back from church,It was the wedding breakfast, she's left him in the lurch."A health unto the bridegroom," and up they rose to drink;When hark! a cry was uttered that made the lady think;A voice of an old woman, employed upon that day,To do some extra tending, "look here," said she, "I say,I guess you do not know me because I've shaved my chin,I'm dressed like an old woman, but I'm a man within;I'm Hiram Smike, your lover, who left the Yankee shore,To come back here to wed you, I'm darned for evermore.You've lifted me like thunder, but you shall never boastOf how you jilted Hiram—I'm off to make a ghost!"He said, tucked up his flounces, and, fluttering through the door,He left them all astounded, and he was seen no more.Next morning in the Dodder, upon the city side,A man beheld a woman, come floating down the tide.And far away in London, a bride, and bridegroom fledFrom their hotel at midnight—a ghost was round the bed!They sought a second lodging, but in the room, as host,Was waiting to receive them that sad, intruding ghost.They tried a cabman's shelter, but it was all in vain,That tantalizing spectre was by their sides again.Aye, even in the daylight, in Rotten Row, aloudThey heard an awful murmur like water thro' the crowd;A moan as from neuralgia did on each tympan strike,"His ghost is on the war path avenging Hiram Smike."They tried the penny steam-boats, the railway underground,The busses and the tramcars, but still they always foundThat busy ghost around them, their lives could not be worse."O thunder!" shrieked the bridegroom, "I'll seek for a divorce."But when the court was opened, the judge refused to sit,For every pleading lawyer had got a sneezing fit;And then there came the earthquake, the ruddy sunsets came,When lo! quite unexpected, one night, they saw a flame.A flash like a vesuvian, did by the table strike,With a Satanic whisper, "You're wanted, Hiram Smike."And from that curious moment, there is no more to tell,They're having every comfort, I hear they're doing well.

SHE was a dainty lady, with golden hair, and cream

Of roses, her complexion, belike a charming dream.

Her eyes were sapphire lighted, her lips, with peachen bloom,

Paterre of pearls were framing, but in her heart a tomb;

For many loves lay buried, that cemet'ry below—

O fie on it for ladies, with love, to trifle so.

At last unto a stranger, her stony heart, did strike,

His wealth was most romantic, his name was Hiram Smike.

'Twas on her mother's sofa he looked at her, said he,"I'm kinder sweet on you, love, will you accept of me?I've travelled half this orange, and never saw your likes;I calculate you oughter join the wigwams of the Smikes."His wealth was most romantic, she answered him with tact,Said he, "I'm off to-morrow, my trunk is ready packed;I must be off to 'Frisco, to see my corn is barned,Don't marry in my absence, for if you do, I'm darned!Now play some tune, that's proper, to show that you're engaged,Expressive of your promise, and how your heart is caged;Strike up some soothin ballad, to tell how you'll be true,And I'll work in a chorus, of Yankee-doodle-do."

'Twas on her mother's sofa he looked at her, said he,

"I'm kinder sweet on you, love, will you accept of me?

I've travelled half this orange, and never saw your likes;

I calculate you oughter join the wigwams of the Smikes."

His wealth was most romantic, she answered him with tact,

Said he, "I'm off to-morrow, my trunk is ready packed;

I must be off to 'Frisco, to see my corn is barned,

Don't marry in my absence, for if you do, I'm darned!

Now play some tune, that's proper, to show that you're engaged,

Expressive of your promise, and how your heart is caged;

Strike up some soothin ballad, to tell how you'll be true,

And I'll work in a chorus, of Yankee-doodle-do."

Her fairy fingers wandered, along the ivory keys,Of her new rosewood cottage, like warble thro' the trees;She sang, that she'd be faithful, all in a soothing strain,While he worked in a chorus—and then he crossed the main.

Her fairy fingers wandered, along the ivory keys,

Of her new rosewood cottage, like warble thro' the trees;

She sang, that she'd be faithful, all in a soothing strain,

While he worked in a chorus—and then he crossed the main.

It was a level twelve months, a fortnight, and a day,Since Hiram Smike departed, and yet he stayed away;But she did wait no longer, and they were back from church,It was the wedding breakfast, she's left him in the lurch.

It was a level twelve months, a fortnight, and a day,

Since Hiram Smike departed, and yet he stayed away;

But she did wait no longer, and they were back from church,

It was the wedding breakfast, she's left him in the lurch.

"A health unto the bridegroom," and up they rose to drink;When hark! a cry was uttered that made the lady think;A voice of an old woman, employed upon that day,To do some extra tending, "look here," said she, "I say,I guess you do not know me because I've shaved my chin,I'm dressed like an old woman, but I'm a man within;I'm Hiram Smike, your lover, who left the Yankee shore,To come back here to wed you, I'm darned for evermore.You've lifted me like thunder, but you shall never boastOf how you jilted Hiram—I'm off to make a ghost!"He said, tucked up his flounces, and, fluttering through the door,He left them all astounded, and he was seen no more.Next morning in the Dodder, upon the city side,A man beheld a woman, come floating down the tide.And far away in London, a bride, and bridegroom fledFrom their hotel at midnight—a ghost was round the bed!

"A health unto the bridegroom," and up they rose to drink;

When hark! a cry was uttered that made the lady think;

A voice of an old woman, employed upon that day,

To do some extra tending, "look here," said she, "I say,

I guess you do not know me because I've shaved my chin,

I'm dressed like an old woman, but I'm a man within;

I'm Hiram Smike, your lover, who left the Yankee shore,

To come back here to wed you, I'm darned for evermore.

You've lifted me like thunder, but you shall never boast

Of how you jilted Hiram—I'm off to make a ghost!"

He said, tucked up his flounces, and, fluttering through the door,

He left them all astounded, and he was seen no more.

Next morning in the Dodder, upon the city side,

A man beheld a woman, come floating down the tide.

And far away in London, a bride, and bridegroom fled

From their hotel at midnight—a ghost was round the bed!

They sought a second lodging, but in the room, as host,Was waiting to receive them that sad, intruding ghost.They tried a cabman's shelter, but it was all in vain,That tantalizing spectre was by their sides again.

They sought a second lodging, but in the room, as host,

Was waiting to receive them that sad, intruding ghost.

They tried a cabman's shelter, but it was all in vain,

That tantalizing spectre was by their sides again.

Aye, even in the daylight, in Rotten Row, aloudThey heard an awful murmur like water thro' the crowd;A moan as from neuralgia did on each tympan strike,"His ghost is on the war path avenging Hiram Smike."

Aye, even in the daylight, in Rotten Row, aloud

They heard an awful murmur like water thro' the crowd;

A moan as from neuralgia did on each tympan strike,

"His ghost is on the war path avenging Hiram Smike."

They tried the penny steam-boats, the railway underground,The busses and the tramcars, but still they always foundThat busy ghost around them, their lives could not be worse."O thunder!" shrieked the bridegroom, "I'll seek for a divorce."

They tried the penny steam-boats, the railway underground,

The busses and the tramcars, but still they always found

That busy ghost around them, their lives could not be worse.

"O thunder!" shrieked the bridegroom, "I'll seek for a divorce."

But when the court was opened, the judge refused to sit,For every pleading lawyer had got a sneezing fit;And then there came the earthquake, the ruddy sunsets came,When lo! quite unexpected, one night, they saw a flame.

But when the court was opened, the judge refused to sit,

For every pleading lawyer had got a sneezing fit;

And then there came the earthquake, the ruddy sunsets came,

When lo! quite unexpected, one night, they saw a flame.

A flash like a vesuvian, did by the table strike,With a Satanic whisper, "You're wanted, Hiram Smike."And from that curious moment, there is no more to tell,They're having every comfort, I hear they're doing well.

A flash like a vesuvian, did by the table strike,

With a Satanic whisper, "You're wanted, Hiram Smike."

And from that curious moment, there is no more to tell,

They're having every comfort, I hear they're doing well.

Why did ye die

"OPAT, the blush is on your face,You're white, an' cowld an' still,I'm all alone, an' by your side,Upon the bleak damp hill.The beatin' from your heart is gone!The starlight from your eye,Mavrone Asthore, O Pat agra!Arrah! why did ye die?A sthrake of blood is on your breast,An' blood is on your brow,O let me die meself, an' rest,It's all I care for now.I want to go where you are gone,An' in your grave to lie!Ah! Pat avrone, I'm all alone,Arrah! why did ye die?Me curse is on the men avick!That brought you out this night,That took you off an' made me sick,An' coaxed ye to the fight,O sure 'twas wrong to give your life,An' lave your wife to cry,Ah! Pat you should have stayed at home,Arrah! why did ye die?You wouldn't take me warnin', Pat,An' shun the moonlight boys,"—"Ah! Biddy whisht! wake out of that,You're dhramin'! stop yer noise!Ye've dhragged the blankets off of me,I'm jammed against the wall,An' you're bawlin' all for nothin' forI'm not dead at all!"

"OPAT, the blush is on your face,

You're white, an' cowld an' still,

I'm all alone, an' by your side,

Upon the bleak damp hill.

The beatin' from your heart is gone!

The starlight from your eye,

Mavrone Asthore, O Pat agra!

Arrah! why did ye die?

A sthrake of blood is on your breast,An' blood is on your brow,O let me die meself, an' rest,It's all I care for now.I want to go where you are gone,An' in your grave to lie!Ah! Pat avrone, I'm all alone,Arrah! why did ye die?

A sthrake of blood is on your breast,

An' blood is on your brow,

O let me die meself, an' rest,

It's all I care for now.

I want to go where you are gone,

An' in your grave to lie!

Ah! Pat avrone, I'm all alone,

Arrah! why did ye die?

Me curse is on the men avick!That brought you out this night,That took you off an' made me sick,An' coaxed ye to the fight,O sure 'twas wrong to give your life,An' lave your wife to cry,Ah! Pat you should have stayed at home,Arrah! why did ye die?

Me curse is on the men avick!

That brought you out this night,

That took you off an' made me sick,

An' coaxed ye to the fight,

O sure 'twas wrong to give your life,

An' lave your wife to cry,

Ah! Pat you should have stayed at home,

Arrah! why did ye die?

You wouldn't take me warnin', Pat,An' shun the moonlight boys,"—"Ah! Biddy whisht! wake out of that,You're dhramin'! stop yer noise!Ye've dhragged the blankets off of me,I'm jammed against the wall,An' you're bawlin' all for nothin' forI'm not dead at all!"

You wouldn't take me warnin', Pat,

An' shun the moonlight boys,"—

"Ah! Biddy whisht! wake out of that,

You're dhramin'! stop yer noise!

Ye've dhragged the blankets off of me,

I'm jammed against the wall,

An' you're bawlin' all for nothin' for

I'm not dead at all!"

A PRETTY LITTLE LAND I KNOW

APRETTY little land I know,Surrounded by the pearly spray;It's where the em'rald shamrocks growIn fertile propagation.The great bear in the polar skyCan see it at the fall of day,When peeping with his glistening eye,Towards Britain's mighty nation.For when the sun is rolling downInto the ocean for the night,In all his radiant golden crown,And purple-flecker'd rays;While tucking on his dreaming cap,Inside the crimson curtains bright,The great warm-hearted kingly chap,Looks back with loving gaze.And where the shining waters danceAcross the wild Atlantic deeps,He takes a sudden, pleasing glance;And when the twilight cometh greyOn other shores, with coaxing glow,He winks his eye before he sleeps,Upon that charming land I know,That's jewel'd in the pearly spray.There, lore of bravest deeds enshrineGreat phantoms of historic days;There, myrtle wreaths of memory twineO'er many storied graves;There, many marble brows are boundBy sculpture of the poet's bays,The while their souls are still in soundFrom harp strings to the waves.With glorious wealth of hair in curls,And beauty, real elating, boys,It's there you'll find most darling girlsIn plentiful diffusion.And Cupid, with his bow and darts,His murders perpetrating, boys,Don't care at all what crowds of heartsHe slays by love's delusion.

APRETTY little land I know,

Surrounded by the pearly spray;

It's where the em'rald shamrocks grow

In fertile propagation.

The great bear in the polar sky

Can see it at the fall of day,

When peeping with his glistening eye,

Towards Britain's mighty nation.

For when the sun is rolling downInto the ocean for the night,In all his radiant golden crown,And purple-flecker'd rays;While tucking on his dreaming cap,Inside the crimson curtains bright,The great warm-hearted kingly chap,Looks back with loving gaze.

For when the sun is rolling down

Into the ocean for the night,

In all his radiant golden crown,

And purple-flecker'd rays;

While tucking on his dreaming cap,

Inside the crimson curtains bright,

The great warm-hearted kingly chap,

Looks back with loving gaze.

And where the shining waters danceAcross the wild Atlantic deeps,He takes a sudden, pleasing glance;And when the twilight cometh greyOn other shores, with coaxing glow,He winks his eye before he sleeps,Upon that charming land I know,That's jewel'd in the pearly spray.

And where the shining waters dance

Across the wild Atlantic deeps,

He takes a sudden, pleasing glance;

And when the twilight cometh grey

On other shores, with coaxing glow,

He winks his eye before he sleeps,

Upon that charming land I know,

That's jewel'd in the pearly spray.

There, lore of bravest deeds enshrineGreat phantoms of historic days;There, myrtle wreaths of memory twineO'er many storied graves;There, many marble brows are boundBy sculpture of the poet's bays,The while their souls are still in soundFrom harp strings to the waves.

There, lore of bravest deeds enshrine

Great phantoms of historic days;

There, myrtle wreaths of memory twine

O'er many storied graves;

There, many marble brows are bound

By sculpture of the poet's bays,

The while their souls are still in sound

From harp strings to the waves.

With glorious wealth of hair in curls,And beauty, real elating, boys,It's there you'll find most darling girlsIn plentiful diffusion.And Cupid, with his bow and darts,His murders perpetrating, boys,Don't care at all what crowds of heartsHe slays by love's delusion.

With glorious wealth of hair in curls,

And beauty, real elating, boys,

It's there you'll find most darling girls

In plentiful diffusion.

And Cupid, with his bow and darts,

His murders perpetrating, boys,

Don't care at all what crowds of hearts

He slays by love's delusion.

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