'T was here that the lovers, intent upon love, Laid a nice little plot To meet at a spot Near a mulberry-tree in a neigboring grove; By the youth and the maid, (Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones,) While PETER, the vigilant matrons to blind, While waiting alone by the trysting tree, As e'er you set eye on, Came roaring along quite horrid to see, Now PETER arriving, and seeing the vail And reeking with gore, Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale, That THISBE was dead, and the lion had eat her! He determined to share The fate of his darling, "the loved and the lost," NOW THISBE returning, and viewing her beau, Which had taken his life, In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring! MORAL. Young gentlemen!-pray recollect, if you please, From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall! Ex. CXLVIII.—THE EXECUTION.* My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day, So his lordship rang for his cabriolet. Tiger Tim Was clean of limb, His boots were polished, his jacket was trim; BARHAM. He stood in stockings just four feet ten; My Lord Tomnoddy raised his head, "Malibran's dead, Duvernay's fled, Taglioni has not arrived in her stead ;- What may a nobleman find to do ?" Tim looked up, and Tim looked down; He paused, and put on a thoughtful frown; And he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown, He bit his lip, and he scratched his head, He let go the handle, and thus he said, *A chapter from the book of London life. As the door, released, behind him banged, "An 't please you, my lord, there's a man to be hanged !" My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news,"Run to M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze, And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues. I have seen before, Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Blackmore; At the end of a string, With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!" Through street and through square, Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air. Went the high-trotting mare at a deuce of a pace; But did no great harm, Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, Two urchins at play, Knocking down, very much to the sweeper's dismay,- Which made all the passing church-mission folks squall My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car; Or their calls, or their bawls, He passes by Waithman's emporium for shawls, Where in front of the jail, he Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gayly The clock strikes twelve,-it is dark midnight,- The tables are set; There is "punch," "cold without," "hot within," "heavy wet," Ale-glasses and jugs, And rummers and mugs, And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs, Pickled onions in jars, Welsh rabbits, and kidneys, rare work for the jaws!— And Lieutenant Tregooze, And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,— The clock strikes One! Supper is done, And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, Is drinking gin-toddy, And laughing at every thing, and every body. Save Captain M'Fuze, Who is taking a snooze, While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work, The clock strikes Four! Round the debtor's door Are gathered a couple of thousands or more; At the press-yard gate, Till slowly its folding-doors open; and straight A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks. The clock strikes Five! The sheriffs arrive, And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; But Sir Carnaby Jenks A candle burns down in the socket, and-hem !— Is dreaming of Jews, And acceptances of the bill-brokers' refuse; Has drunk all his toddy; And just as the dawn is beginning to peep, Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks; As that which its course has now begun, And hark!-a sound comes big with fate, The clock from St. Sepulcher's tower strikes-Eight !— List to that low funeral bell: It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell! And see !-from forth that opening door They come-he steps the threshold o'er Who never shall tread upon threshold more.- That pale man's mute agony, The glare of that wild, despairing eye, Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky, |