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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 per
cussion 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
mortality, 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 mean, you
know, a stocking Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tat
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 Gos
pel 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 dark so fast ? a
worthy pioneer! – HAMLET.
Well !— Monsieur Brunel, How prospers now thy mighty undertaking, To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends Of Rotherhithe, and Wapping, —
Never be stopping,
To give us the “ View hollow.”
* [M. Brunel was the architect of the Tunnel under the Thames, at London.)
And with a mighty stormy kind of roar,
Reproachful of thy wrong,
Burst out in that old song Of Incledon's, beginning “ Cease, rude Bore.” — Sad is it, worthy of one's tears,
Just when one seems the most successful,
In difficulties most distressful !
Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf ;
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,
Bed-ridden ! 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 ;
And sunk beneath thy own and Thames's craft ; Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid
Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft !
Stick up a sign — the sign of the Bore's Head ;
I've drawn it ready for thee in black lead, And make thy cellar subterrane, — Thy Shades !
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
Over the way!
Oh! why are eyes of hazel ? noses Grecian?
Over the way.
I've gazed too often, till my heart's as lost
Over the way!
I cannot read or write, or thoughts relax -
Over the way!