VIII.

A cunning woman told me once,
Such fortune would turn up;
She was a kind of sorceress,

But studied in a cup!

IX.

So he walk'd up to Lady Wye,
And took her quite amazed,—

She thought, tho' John was tall enougî,

He wanted to be raised.

X.

But John-for why? she was a dame

Of such a dwarfish sort

Had only come to bid her make

Her mourning very short.

XI.

Said he, your Lord is dead and cold,

You only cry in vain;

Not all the Cries of London now,
Could call him back again!

XII.

You'll soon have many a noble beau,

To dry your noble tears—

But just consider this, that I

Have follow'd you for years.

XIII.

And tho' you are above me far,
What matters high degree,

When you are only four foot nine

And I am six foot three?

XIV.

For tho' you are of lofty race,

And I'm a low-born elf;

Yet none among your friends could say,
You matched beneath yourself.

XV.

Said she, such insolence as this Can be no common case; Tho' you are in my service, sir, Your love is out of place.

XVI.

O Lady Wye! O Lady Wye!
Consider what you do ;

How can you be so short with me,
I am not so with you!

XVII.

Then ringing for her serving men,
They show'd him to the door :
Said they, you turn out better now,
Why didn't you before?

XVIII.

They stripp'd his coat, and gave him kicks

For all his wages due;

And off, instead of green and gold,

He went in black and blue.

XX.

Huzza! the Serjeant cried, and put
The money in his hand,
And with a shilling cut him off

From his paternal land.

XXI.

For when his regiment went to fight

At Saragossa town,

A Frenchman thought he look'd too tall

And so he cut him down i

ONE widow at a grave will sob
A little while, and weep, and sigh!
If two should meet on such a job,
They'll have a gossip by and by.
If three should come together-why,
Three widows are good company!
If four should meet by any chance,
Four is a number very nice,

To have a rubber in a trice-
But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C

(why should I not

Declare her name?-her name was Cross)

Was one of those the "

common lot "

Had left to weep "no common loss; "-
For she had lately buried then
A man, the "very best of men,"
A lingering truth, discover'd first
Whenever men are at the worst."
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep-
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did not weep:

In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect "veil of tears."

Though ever since she lost "her prop
And stay,"-alas! he wouldn't stay-
She never had a tear to mop,

Except one little angry drop,

From Passion's eye, as Moore would say;
Because, when Mister Cross took flight,
It looked so very like a spite—

He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,

As if "to wet a widow's cheek,"

And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy,'Twas nothing but a make-believe,

She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And yet she often seem'd to raise
A cambric kerchief to her eye—
A duster ought to be the phrase,
Its work was all so very dry.

The springs were lock'd that ought to flow—

In England or in widow-woman-

As those that watch the weather know,

Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains,
To call upon the "dear remains,”-
Remains that could not tell a jot,
Whether she ever wept or not,

Or how his relict took her losses?

Oh! my black ink turns red for shame

But still the naughty world must learn,

There was a little German came
To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn,"

At the next grave to Mr. Cross's!

For there an angel's virtues slept,

"Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!"