Of her Heroes of old,

So brave and so bold—

Oner Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold!
Of King Edward the First,
Of memory accurst;

And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,
Killing Poets by dozens,

With their uncles and cousins,

Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved-
Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Catherine's lap;
And how Mr. Tudor

Successfully woo'd her,

Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in-law to the King.

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
Which went pit-a-pat

As he cried out, "What's that ?"-
That very queer sound ?—

Does it come from the ground?

Or the air-from above-or below-or around ?—
It is not like Talking,

It is not like Walking,

It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of a horse-or the tread of a man—
Or the hum of a crowd-or the shouting of boys-
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!

Not unlike a cart's-but that can't be; for when
Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men,'
With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up "PEN ?”

Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,
Now experienced what schoolboys denominate "funk."
In vain he look'd back

On the whole of the track

He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon;

While clearer and clearer,

'Twas plain to the hearer,

Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much "like a coffin a-walking upstairs."

Mr. Pryce had begun
To "make up" for a run,

As in such a companion he saw no great fun
When a single bright ray

Shone out on the way

He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,
The deceased Mrs. Winnifred's "Grandmother's Clock !"
'Twas so!-it had certainly moved from its place,
And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;
'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all-but the Face!
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turned into eyes
Blazing with ire,

Like two coals of fire;

And the "Name of the Maker " was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.

No! he could not mistake it 'twas SHE to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct wife!

One glance was enough,
Completely "Quant. suff."

As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff."
Like a weathercock whirled by a vehement puff,
David turned himself round;
Ten feet of ground

He cleared, in his start, at the very first bound!
I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses-
I've seen ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises-
At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,
And one from a bailiff much faster than that:
At football I've seen lads run after the bladder-
I've seen Irish bricklayers run up a ladder—
I've seen little boys run away from a cane-

And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain ;*
But I never did read

Of, or witness, such speed

As David exerted that evening.-Indeed

All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,

Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over

He reaches its brow

He has past it-and now

66 PEN!"

Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he
Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity:
But run as he will,

Or roll down the hill,

The bugbear behind him is after him still!

I-run is a town said to have been so named from something of this sort.

And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking,
Till exhausted and sore,

He can't run any more,

But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,

And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, "Oh! Look at the Clock !-Do!-Look at the Clock!"

Miss Davis looked up, Miss Davis looked down,
She saw nothing there to alarm her ;—a frown
Came o'er her white forehead;

She said, "It was horrid

A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;-
To squall and to bawl
About nothing at all!"

She begged "he'd not think of repeating his call:
His late wife's disaster

By no means had past her;"

She'd "have him to know she was meat for his master!"
Then regardless alike of his love and his woes,
She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose.

Poor David in vain
Implored to remain;

66

He "dared not," he said, cross the mountain again.”
Why the fair was obdurate

None knows, to be sure, it

Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate.
Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole

Pryce found to creep into that night was the coal-hole!
In that shady retreat,

And with

With nothing to eat,

very

bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, All night close he kept;

I can't say he slept;

But he sighed, and he sobbed, and he groaned, and he wept; Lamenting his sins,

And his two broken shins,

Bewailing his fate, with contortions and grins,
And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis,
Consigning to Satan-viz., cruel Miss Davis !

Mr. David has since had a "serious call,"
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech,

And to preach, and to teach

People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small," That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,

Was right in proclaiming "ÁRISTON MEN UDOR!"

Element

Which means
66 The pure
Is for Man's belly meant!"

And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder!

And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up," At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup, Mr. Pryce, if he's there,

Will get into "The Chair,"

And make all his quondam associates stare
By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter,

66

Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!" The dial he constantly watches; and when

The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at " X.," He gets on his legs,

Drains his glass to the dregs,

Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his president's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly-" Gentlemen!

66

LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!"

(By permission of Mr. Bentley.)

THE RED FISHERMAN.

W. M. PRAED.

[Born 1802; Died 1839.]

THE Abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donned his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth alone to look
Upon the summer moon ›

A starlight sky was o'er his head,

A quiet breeze around;

And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:

It was not an hour, nor a scene for aught
But love and calm delight;

Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that gurgled by,
But he thought not of the reeds;

He clasped his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads:

If he look'd to the Heaven, 'twas not to invoke
The spirit that dwelleth there;

If he opened his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.

A pious Priest might the Abbot seem,
He had swayed the crosier well:

But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream,
The Abbot was loth to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore,
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'er-arching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,

And rocks whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers.
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery,
About as much, in sooth,

As a lover thinks of constancy,

Or an advocate of truth.

He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head,

He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;

And nearer he came, and still more near,
To a pool, in whose recess

The water had slept for many a year,
Unchang'd, and motionless;

From the river stream it spread away,
The space of half a rood:

The surface had the hue of clay,

And the scent of human blood;

The trees and the herbs that round it grew

Were venomous and foul;

And the birds that through the bushes flew

Were the vulture and the owl;

The water was as dark and rank

As ever a company pumped;

And the perch that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped :

And bold was he who thither came

At midnight, man or boy;

For the place was cursed with an evil name,
And that name was "The Devil's Decoy !"

The Abbot was weary as Abbot could be,

And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree;
When suddenly rose a dismal tone—

Was it a song, or was it a moan?

66

Oh, ho! Oh, ho!

Above,-below!

Lightly and brightly they glide and go:
The hungry and keen to the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!"