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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

tered 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 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,
But poking, groping, in the dark keep making
An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons,
For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons,
To cross the water in inverse proportion,
Walk under steamboats under the keel's ridge,
To keep down all extortion,
And without sculls to diddle London Bridge !
In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry,
Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow,
Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey,

To give us the “ View hollow.”
In short it was thy aim, right north and south,
To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth ;
Alas ! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when
Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof,
Came, like "a tide in the affairs of men;"

* [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,
To find one's self o'er head and ears

In difficulties most distressful !
Other great speculations have been nursed,

Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf ;
But thy concern was at the worst,

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 !
I'll tell thee with thy tunnel what to do ;
Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two,
The wine does better than such water trades :

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
About my heart and on my vitals prey ;
I've caught a fever that I can't get over,

Over the way!

Oh! why are eyes of hazel ? noses Grecian?
I've lost my rest by night, my peace by day,
For want of some brown Holland or Venetian,

Over the way.

I've gazed too often, till my heart's as lost
As any needle in a stack of hay:
Crosses belong to love, and mine is crossed

Over the way!

I cannot read or write, or thoughts relax -
Of what avail Lord Althorp or Earl Grey ?
They cannot ease me of my window-tax

Over the way!

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