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The old Chateau, before that night, had never
Held half so many underneath its roof,
It task'd the Baroness's best endeavour,

And put her best contrivance to the proof,
To give them chambers up and down the stairs,
In twos and threes, by singles, and by pairs

She had just lodging for the whole-yet barely;
And some, that were both broad of back and tall,
Lay on spare beds that served them very sparely:
However, there were beds enough for all ;

But living bodies occupied so many
She could not let the dead one take up any.

The act was, certainly, not over decent :

Some small respect, e'en after death, she ow'd him, Considering his death had been so recent :

However, by command, her servants stow'd him, (I am asham'd to think how he was slubber'd,) Stuck bolt upright within a corner cupboard!

And there he slept as soundly as a post,
With no more pillow than an oaken shelf,
Just like a kind accommodating host,

Taking all inconvenience on himself.

None else slept in that room, except a stranger,
A decent man, a sort of Forest Ranger.

Who, whether he had gone too soon to bed,
Or dreamt himself into an appetite,

Howbeit he took a longing to be fed,

About the hungry middle of the night;
So getting forth, he sought some scrap to eat,
Hopeful of some stray pasty, or cold meat.

The casual glances of the midnight moon,
Bright'ning some antique ornaments of brass,
Guided his gropings to that corner soon,

Just where it stood, the coffin-safe, alas !
He tried the door-then shook it-and in course
Of time it open'd to a little force.

He put one hand in, and began to grope;
The place was very deep and quite as dark as
The middle night;-when lo! beyond his hope,
He felt a something cold, in fact, the carcase;
Right overjoy'd, he laugh'd, and blest his luck
At finding, as he thought, this haunch of buck!

Then striding back for his couteau de chasse,
Determined on a little midnight lunching,
He came again and prob'd about the mass,
As if to find the fattest bit for munching;
Not meaning wastefully to cut it all up,
But only to abstract a little collop.

But just as he had struck one greedy stroke,
His hand fell down quite powerless and weak;
For when he cut the haunch it plainly spoke

As haunch of ven'son never ought to speak;

No wonder that his hand could go no further

Whose could?-to carve cold meat that bellow'd, "murther!'

Down came the Body with a bounce, and down

The Ranger sprang, a staircase at a spring,

And bawl'd enough to waken up a town;

Some thought that they were murder'd, some, the King,

And, like Macduff, did nothing for a season,

But stand upon the spot and bellow, "Treason!"

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A hundred nightcaps gather'd in a mob,

Torches drew torches, swords brought swords together,

It seem'd so dark and perilous a job;

The Baroness came trembling like a feather

Just in the rear, as pallid as a corse,

Leaning against the Master of the Horse.

A dozen of the bravest up the stair,

Well lighted and well watch'd, began to clamber ; They sought the door-they found it—they were there, A dozen heads went poking in the chamber;

And lo! with one hand planted on his hurt,
There stood the body bleeding thro' his shirt,—

No passive corse-but like a duellist

Just smarting from a scratch—in fierce position,
One hand advanced, and ready to resist;
In fact, the Baron doff'd the apparition,
Swearing those oaths the French delight in most,
And for the second time "gave up the ghost!"

A living miracle !-for why?-the knife
That cuts so many off from grave gray hairs,

Had only carv'd him kindly into life:

How soon it chang'd the posture of affairs!

The difference one person more or less
Will make in families, is past all guess.

There stood the Baroness-no widow yet;
Here stood the Baron-"in the body" still;

There stood the Horses' Master in a pet,
Choking with disappointment's bitter pill,

To see the hope of his reversion fail,
Like that of riding on a donkey's tail.

The Baron liv'd-'twas nothing but a trance:

The lady died-'twas nothing but a death :
The cupboard-cut serv'd only to enhance

This postscript to the old Baronial breath :
He soon forgave, for the revival's sake,
A little chop intended for a steak!

ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.,*

BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT GRETNA GREEN.

AH me! what causes such complaining breath,
Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow?
It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death,
For laying Laing low!

From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe-
A shrill and persevering loud lament,
Echoed by Mrs. J.'s Establishment
"For Six Young Ladies,

In a retired and healthy part of Kent."

All weeping, Mr. L gone down to Hades!
Thoughtful of grates, and convents, and the veil !
Surrey takes up the tale,

And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones
With the two parlour-boarders and th' apprentice---
So universal this mis-timed event is-

Are joining sobs and groans!

The shock confounds all hymeneal planners

And drives the sweetest from their sweet behaviours;
The girls at Manor House forget their manners,

And utter sighs like paviours!

* On the 3d inst., died in Springfield, near Gretna Green, David Laing, aged seventy-two, who had for thirty-five years officiated as high-priest at Gretna Green. He caught cold on his way to Lancaster, to give evidence on the trial of the Wakefields, from the effects of which he never recovered.— Newspapers, July 1827.

Down-down through Devon and the distant shires
Travels the news of Death's remorseless crime;
And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires
Of matches against time!

Along the northern route

The road is water'd by postilions' eyes;
The topboot paces pensively about,
And yellow jackets are all strained with sighs;
There is a sound of grieving at the Ship,
And sorry hands are ringing at the Bell,
In aid of David's knell.

The postboy's heart is cracking-not his whip—
To gaze upon those useless empty collars
His way-worn horses seem so glad to slip—
And think upon the dollars

That used to urge his gallop-quicker! quicker!
All hope is fled,

For Laing is dead—

Vicar of Wakefield-Edward Gibbon's vicar!
The barristers shed tears

Enough to feed a snipe (snipes live on suction),
To think in after years

No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction,
Nor knaves inveigle

Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal.
The dull reporters

Look truly sad and seriously solemn
To lose the future column

On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters!

But grave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeauThat never real beau of flesh and blood

Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chambaud.

Sleep-David Laing-sleep

In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee!
Over thy grave a thousand maidens weep,

And honest postboys mourn thee!

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