The old Chateau, before that night, had never And put her best contrivance to the proof, 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, Taking all inconvenience on himself. None else slept in that room, except a stranger, Who, whether he had gone too soon to bed, Howbeit he took a longing to be fed, About the hungry middle of the night; The casual glances of the midnight moon, Just where it stood, the coffin-safe, alas! He put one hand in, and began to grope; Then striding back for his couteau de chasse, 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!" 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, 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 How soon it chang'd the posture of affairs! The difference one person more or less There stood the Baroness-no widow yet; There stood the Horses' Master in a pet, The Baron liv'd-'twas nothing but a trance: ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.,* BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT GRETNA Green. AH me! what causes such complaining breath, From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe- "For Six Young Ladies, In a retired and healthy part of Kent." All weeping, Mr. L gone down to Hades! And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones Are joining sobs and groans! ́ The shock confounds all hymeneal planners And drives the sweetest from their sweet behaviours; 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 Along the northern route The road is water'd by postilions' eyes; The postboy's heart is cracking—not his whip— That used to urge his gallop-quicker! quicker! For Laing is dead Vicar of Wakefield-Edward Gibbon's vicar! Enough to feed a snipe (snipes live on suction), No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction, Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal. Look truly sad and seriously solemn 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! And honest postboys mourn thee! |