"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,

66

Lucy's courage screw'd up, to see him screw'd down ;

'O, how my heart is beating! was there ever such a sweeting?

Except in Sweeting's Alley, where there lives Tom Brown!"

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 smart limb'd!

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 wink;

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 chaiseand-pair.

* 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 drum.

With prime whiskey-toddy they moisten'd soul and body,

And Bishopsgate-without toasted Bishopsgate

within ;

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 Twist!

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

Fink!

"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,

To the "Devil among the Tailors!" in darkness

and mist,

Danc'd nine grisly sprites in their blue coats and tights,

Each claiming, while he licks her! his wife, Widow Twist!

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 my tale.