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“ And if you wed, ah me! a cher ami,
Your bed shall be haunted by dolorous tics; My ghost shall knock as it strikes twelve o'clock,
And knock you both to spinnage, I swear by Styx!"
From top to toe Sam was rigg'd like a beau,
Lucy's courage screw'd up, to see him screw'd
“O, how my heart is beating! was there ever such
a sweeting? Except in Sweeting's Alley, where there lives
Now Tom, under favour, a good-looking shaver, Earn’d his mutton and trimmings by the beards
that he trimm'd; His whiskers and jazey set all the women crazy, And he clapp'd their hearts in limbo, he was so
She put off her starch way, her high gait, and arch
way, They hob and nob buzz'd, till 'twas buzz'd thro
the town, Some fine day in summer,as black did not become her, Widow Twist, dress'd in white, would be chang'd
into Brown !
So early in May, on a sun-shiny day,
They rose bright array'd, with the rays of the sun; The bells of Bennet-Fink, wouldn't let 'em sleep a
And splic'd by a canon, they were off like a gun!
They were up on the Downs, being flush of the
browns ! Then Brown, off to France took his flame, for a
flare ! He bought her some natty combs, and show'd her
the Catacombs, To Père-la-Chaise* the pair drove in a chaise
* The custom of planting flowers over the graves of departed friends is beautiful and humane. Talk of the foppery of French church-yards ! Compare the solemn cypress groves, and enamelled parterres of Père-la-Chaise, with the dank, reeking charnel-houses of London and its vicinity! This custom was once prevalent in England; and Montgomery (James), in one of his poems, gives a charming description of the effects of sunshine after a shower on the lovely-planted graves of a Moravian burying ground. The French epitaphs are exquisitely simple ; “ Ici repose” contrasts strangely with our burlesque sorrow, that trumpets forth the posthumous virtues of some rogue “ that stunk alive," and thus, by a poetical transfiguration, becomes “ a precious mummy, dead.”
'Twas rueful to view ev'ry street written “ Rue," Ev'ry book seem'd to Tom, to be written by
" Tom !” So the lady and her barber return'd by Dover
Harbour To Threadneedle-street, which they'd been a
month from !
Not, tea-and-turn-out, but to dinner and rout, They sent an invite for their neighbours to
come : To three fiddle-scrapers the company cut capers, And the ear-piercing fife of their ears pierc'd the
With prime whiskey-toddy they moisten'd soul and
body, And Bishopsgate-without toasted Bishopsgate
Mrs. Brown led her shaver down a dance, and
through a quaver; Merry was the dinner, and merrier was the din!
It chim'd twelve o'clock, when there came a loud
knock, As if Gog and Magog had rapp'd with their fist! The Lane of Saint Bartholomew sent forth a dismal,
hollow mew, And in march’d Mister (or his ghost !) Sammy
His mouth grinn’d so grimly, and it smok'd like a
chimbley! His nose flar'd red hot, 'twixt his eyes, like a link! He rattled his dry bones, like a cart upon the stones ! And danc'd to the muffled bells of Saint Bennet
“Of Fish," (cry'd Spirit Sammy,)“ here's a pretty
kettle, damme! Cut your stick, and off to Styx; tide serves, the
water's high; A wherry's at the ferry, for a pleasant voyage, very!
And Lucifer, my Lucy fair! has other fish to fry!"
“ 'Tis high time you're below, hark! the cock
begins to crow, And fresh I scent the morning air-ere morn,
I must away!” When a loud clap of thunder made them both
knock under, And then there was old Charon, and the devil
too, to pay!
Safe landed they were at the Hotel d'Enfèr,
and mist, Danc'd nine grisly sprites in their blue coats and
tights, Each claiming, while he licks her! his wife,
The Old one laugh'd like a new one, and quaff'd
His goblet of goblin Elixir, or ale. “One man” (he cry'd)“ at most, is a solitary ghost, But Twist is a Tailor!” —And so ends