The car went upside down, and far
Poor Major Brown was cast.

Long time head over heels he tum-
bled, till unto the ground,

As I suppose, he must have come;
But he was never found.

The car was found in London town;
The bag to Oxford flew;

But what became of Major Brown,
No mortal ever knew.

THOMAS HOOL

12. THE DUEL.

IN Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mister Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,

By all it was allowed,

Such fair "outside"* was never seen,

An angel on a cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

"You choose to rival me

And court Miss Bell; but there your court

No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit,

You may repent your love ;

I, who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle-dove.

"So, pray, before you woo her more,
Consider what you do:

If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,-
I'll pop it into you."

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,

"Your threats I do explode ;

* In England, women frequently ride on the outside of stage-coaches.

One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you, unless
Your passion quiet keeps,

I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's!”

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
red;

And that for copper

But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they found a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give-

That when they both were dead, they'd have
Two seconds yet to live.

To measure out the ground, not long
The seconds next forbore;
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol pan,
Against the deadly strife;
By putting in the prime of death,
Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes;

But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so, they found They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,

"Here one of us may fall, And, like St. Paul's Cathedral now, Be doomed to have a ball.

"I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name!

If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?"

Said Mr. B., "I do agree;

But think of Honor's courts,

If we off without a shot,

There will be strange reports.

"But look! the morning now is bright,

Though cloudy it begun;

Why can't we aim above, as if
We had called out the sun?"

So up into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send ;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end.

THOMAS HOOD.

13. JOHN DAY.

JOHN DAY, he was the biggest man,
Of all the coachman kind;

With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.

The bar-maid of "The Crown" he loved,
From whom he never ranged;
For, though he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.

One day, as she was sitting down
Beside the porter pump,

He came and knelt, with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.

Said she, "My taste will never learn
To like so huge a man;

So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can."

But still he stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, although
He drove the “Dart" for years.

In vain he wooed-in vain he sued-
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on the way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;

The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last, her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
"O, Mary! view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf!
Though I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half!"
Alas! in vain he still assailed,
Her heart withstood the dint ;
Though he had carried sixteen stone,
He could not move a flint!

Worn out, at last he made a vow,
To break his being's link,
For he was so reduced in size,
At nothing he could shrink.

Now, some will talk in water's praise,
And waste a deal of breath;
But John, though he drank nothing else,
He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid, that caused his love,
Found out the fatal close,

For, looking in the butt, she saw

The butt end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown;

But that is only talk;

For, after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk.

THOMAS HOOD.

14. THE TROUBLESOME WIFF.

A MAN had once a vicious wife

(A most uncommon thing in life);

His days and nights were spent in strife unceasing.

Her tongue went glibly all day long,

Sweet contradiction still her song,

And all the poor man did was wrong, and ill-done.

A truce without doors, or within,
From speeches long as tradesmen spin,

Or rest from her eternal din, he found not.

He every soothing art displayed;

Tried of what stuff her skin was made:

Failing in all, to Heaven he prayed to take her.

Once, walking by a river's side,

In mournful terms, "My dear," he cried,

"No more let feuds our peace divide: I'll end them.

"Weary of life, and quite resigned,

To drown, I have made up my mind,

So tie my hands as fast behind, as can be ;

"Or nature may assert her reign,

My arms assist, my will restrain,

And swimming, I once more regain my troubles."

With eager haste the dame complies,

While joy stands glistening in her eyes:

Already, in her thoughts, he dies before her.

"Yet, when I view the rolling tide, Nature revolts," he said; "beside,

I would not be a suicide, and die thus. "It would be better far, I think,

While close I stand upon the brink,

You push me in-nay, never shrink, but do it."

To give the blow the more effect,

Some twenty yards she ran direct,

And did what she could least expect she should do.

He slips aside, himself to save,

So souse she dashes in the wave,

And gave, what ne'er she gave before, much pleasure.

"Dear husband, help! I sink!" she cried;

"Thou best of wives," the man replied,

“I would,but you my hands have tied heaven help you."

ANONYMOUS.