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THE GHOST.

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.

“I'll be your second.” — LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago,

There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him

The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out,

One Friday he died hard,
And left a widowed wife to mourn

At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months

Thought mourning quite a tax; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,

To manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;

The thing thus came about :
She asked him in at home, and then

At church he asked her out !

Assurance such as this the man

In ashes could not stand ; So like a Phenix he rose up

Against the Hand in Hand.

One dreary night the angry sprite

Appeared before her view; It came a little after one,

But she was after two!

“Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.!

Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame,

To burn your widow's weeds ?

“It's not so long since I have left

For aye the mortal scene; My Memory - like Rogers’s,

Should still be bound in green!

6 Yet if my face you still retrace

I almost bave a doubt -
I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not,

With all the leaves torn out!

“ To think that on that finger joint,

Another pledge should cling ; Oh Bess ! upon my very soul,

It struck like · Knock and Ring.' “ A ton of marble on my breast

Can't hinder my return; Your conduct, Ma'am, has set my blood

A-boiling in my urn!

“ Remember, oh! remember, how

The marriage ’rite did run, If ever we one flesh should be,

'Tis now — when I have none !

6 And you, Sir - once a bosom friend

Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,

Consider you are kicked.

“ A hollow voice is all I have,

But this I tell you plain, Marry come up! — you marry Ma'am,

And I'll come up again.”

More he had said, but chanticleer

The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow, and off he went,

Like fowling-piece at cock !

ODE TO MADAME HENGLER,

FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL.

Oh, Mrs. Hengler !-- Madame, - I beg pardon
Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden !
Accept an Ode not meant as any scoff -
The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz,
Whose squibs are far more popular than his ;'
Whose works are much more certain to go off.

Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame;
With many a bang the public ear it courts ;
And yet thy arrogance we never blame,
But take thy merits from thy own reports.
Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers,
We make no doubting, misbelieving comments,
Even in thy most bounceable of moments;
But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers ! -
Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing,

Thy Rockets raise thee,

And Serpents praise thee, As none beside are ever praised — by hissing !

Mistress of Hydropyrics,
Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics,

VOL. III.

Professor of a Fiery Necromancy,
Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts

With midnight sports,
Partaking very much of flash and fancy!

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What thoughts had shaken all In olden time at thy nocturnal revels, —

Each brimstone ball,
They would have deemed an eyeball of the

Devil's !
But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright;
A modern Hubert to the royal ear,

Might whisper without fear, “ My Lord, they say there were five moons to

night!” Nor would it raise one superstitious notion To hear the whole description fairly out:“ One fixed — which tother four whirled round about

With wondrous motion.”

Such are the very sights Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and

heaven, Between the hours of midnight and eleven, Turning our English to Arabian Nights, With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons,

Blue stars and white,
And blood-red light,

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