IV.

“Come, girl," said he, "hold up your hear,

He'll be as good as me ;

For when your swain is in our boat,

A boatswain he will be

V.

So when they'd made their game of her,

And taken off her elf,

She rous'd, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

VI.

“And is he gone, and is he gone?”
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."

VII.

A waterman came up to her,

"Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea."

VIII.

Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow;"

And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said, Gee woe!

IX.

Says he, "they've only taken him.

To the Tender-ship, you see;"

292

"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, "What a hard-ship that must be !

X

"Oh! would I were a mermaid now

For then I'd follow him;
But oh!-I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

XI.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."

XII.

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home
And all her sails were furl'd.

XIII.

But when he call'd on Sally Brown,

To see how she got on,

He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian-name was John.

XIV.

"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze betore,
But never such a blow!"

XV.

Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heav'd a bitter sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,

And then to pipe his eye.

'XVI.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not though he tried ;
His head was turn'd and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.

XVII.

His death, which happen'd in his birth,

At forty-odd befell :

They went and told the sexton, and

The sexton toll'd the bell.

A VALENTINE

I.

OH! cruel heart! ere these posthumous papers Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers

Have only lighted me the way to death. Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapours, When I am gone, and green grass covereth

Thy lover, lost; but it will be in vain-
It will not bring the vital spark again.

II.

Ah! when those eyes, like tapers, burn'd so blue, It seemed an omen that we must expect

The sprites of lovers; and it boded true,
For I am half a sprite—a ghost elect;
Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu,

With my last pen-before that I effect
My exit from the stage; just stopp'd before
The tombstone steps that lead us to death's door.

III.

Full soon those living eyes, now liquid bright, Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save They shed a dreary and inhuman light,

Illum'd within by glow-worms of the grave; These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight, These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have, Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh, Must bid farewell, a long farewell, to flesh!

IV.

Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee,
As broken victuals to the worms will go;
And all the world will dine again but me—
For I shall have no stomach;-and I know,
When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be

As now thou art: but will not tears of woe

Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct,
When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct?

V.

And when thy soul is buried in a sleep,
In midnight solitude, and little dreaming
Of such a spectre-what, if I should creep

Within thy presence in such dismal seeming?
Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep,
And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming,
And pray with mingled penitence and dread
That I were less alive or not so dead.

VI

Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove
This wilful homicide which thou hast done:
And the sad epitaph of so much love

Will eat into my heart, as if in stone:
And all the lovers that around thee move,

Will read my fate, and tremble for their own; And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh, "Man. born of woman, must of woman die!"

VII.

Mine eyes grow dropsical-I can no more-
And what is written thou may'st scorn to read,
Shutting thy tearless eyes.-'Tis done-'tis o'er-
My hand is destin'd for another deed.

But one last word wrung from its aching core,
And my lone heart in silentness will bleed;
Alas! it ought to take a life to tell

That one last word--that fare-fare-fare thee well.

"PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE."

I.

I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore:-
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door:
So he call'd upon Lucy-'twas just ten o'clock-
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock

II.

Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at,
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat:
So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more
Had question'd the stranger and answer'd the door.