So in it goes, and Bounce-O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were canonized, like Sogers in a battle! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather: But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mor tality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother, Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other. So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin'; Here lays a leg, and there a leg-I men, vou know, a stocking— Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em-none but-nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered- Why, where is the powder blew ?'" ODE TO M. BRUNEL.* "Well said, old mole! canst work i' the earth so fast? a worthy pioneer!-HAMLET. WELL! -Monsieur Brunel, How prospers now thy mighty undertaking, Never be stopping, [M. Brunel was the architect of the Tunne mes, at London.] But poking, groping, in the dark keep making Walk under steamboats under the keel's ridge, And without sculls to diddle London Bridge! In short it was thy aim, right north and south, Of Incledon's, beginning " Cease, rude Bore."- Just when one seems the most successful, In difficulties most distressful! Other great speculations have been nursed, When it began to liquidate itself! But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden, And languishes thy Tunnel,-so to paint, Under a slow incurable complaint, Why, when thus Thames-bed-bothered-why repine! Do try a spare bed at the Serpentine ! Yet let none think thee dazed, or crazed, or stupid; Let the not style thee some Mechanic Cupid I'll tell thee with thy tunnel what to do; OVER THE WAY. "I sat over against a window where there stood a pot with very pretty flowers; and I had my eyes fixed on it, when on a sudden the window opened, and a young lady appeared whose beauty struck me."-ARABIAN NIGHTS. ALAS! the flames of an unhappy lover Oh! why are eyes of hazel? noses Grecian? I've gazed too often, till my heart's as lost Crosses belong to love, and mine is crossed I cannot read or write, or thoughts relax— Oh! if my godmother were but a fairy, I envy every thing that's near Miss Lindo, Blest blue-bottles! that buzz about the window Even at even, for there be no shutters, And then-oh! then-while the clear waxen taper Over the way! But how breathe unto her my deep regards, y? Over the way Cold as the pole she is to my adoring ;- Over the way! Each dirty little Savoyard that dances She looks on - Punch — or chimney-sweeps in May; Zounds! wherefore cannot I attract her glances out she leans to watch a tumbling brat, yelping cur, run over by a dray; I'm in love-she never pities that! Over the way! |