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.

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 oft

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

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 !"

But still her painted face he kept,
"Encompass'd in an angel's frame."

He look'd quite sad and quite deprived,
His head was nothing but a hat-band;
He look'd so lone, and so unwived,
That soon the Widow Cross contrived
To fall in love with even that band;
And all at once the brackish juices
Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices-
Tear after tear too fast to wipe,

Tho' sopp'd, and sopp'd, and sopp'd again—
No leak in sorrow's private pipe,

But like a bursting on the main !
Whoe'er has watch'd the window-pane—
I mean to say in showery weather-
Has seen two little drops of rain,
Like lovers very fond and fain,
At one another creeping, creeping,
Till both, at last, embrace together:
So far'd it with that couple's weeping!
The principle was quite as active—
Tear unto tear,

Kept drawing near,

Their very blacks became attractive.
To cut a shortish story shorter,

Conceive them sitting tête à tête

Two cups,-hot muffins on a plate,-
With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water!

The brazen vessel for a while,

Had lectured in an easy song,

Like Abernethy-on the bile

The scalded herb was getting strong;
Ail seem'd as smooth as smooth could be,

To have a cosey cup of tea;

Alas! how often human sippers
With unexpected bitters meet,

And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,

Like sugar, only meet the nippers'