« ForrigeFortsett »
But of all unexpected things
That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise
In what is very dear. So Phoebe screamed an awful scream
To prove the seaman’s text; That after black appearances,
White squalls will follow next.
“Oh, Phoebe, dear! oh, Phoebe, dear!
Don't go to scream or faint ;
The Devil, but I ain't !
I walked while I had breath ;
A-walking after Death !
“No murder, though, I come to tell,
By base and bloody crime ;
To some more fitting time.
My body need attack,
Why I have died so black.
“One Sunday, shortly after tea,
My skin began to burn As if I had in my inside
A heater, like the urn.
And as I lay in bed,
You see upon my head.
“ His Lordship for his doctor sent,
My treatment to begin ;-
Before he called him in !
And passed at Surgeon's Hall,
He never cured at all!
“ The doctor looked about my breast,
And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said
• Your case looks very black.' And first he sent me hot cayenne
And then gamboge to swallow, But still my fever would not turn
To Scarlet or to Yellow !
“ With madder and with turmeric,
He made his next attack ; But neither he nor all his drugs
Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life,
And sick of being dosed,
One Monday morning I gave up
“Oh. Phoebe, dear, what pain it was
To sever every tie ! You know black beetles feel as much
As giants when they die.
Or bride of little worth,
Along with Mother Earth.
“ Alas ; some happy, happy day,
In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin
Receive your lily hand. But sternly with that piebald match,
My fate untimely clashes, For now, like Pompe-double-i,
I’m sleeping in my ashes !
“ And now farewell ! a last farewell !
I'm wanted down below,
One word before I go-
Ne’er spend your precious pelf-
Can do it for myself.
“ Henceforth within my grave I rest,
But Death who there inherits, Allowed my spirit leave to come,
You seemed so out of spirits : But do not sigh, and do not cry,
By grief too much engrossed, Nor for a ghost of color, turn
The color of a ghost !
“ Again, farewell, my Phoebe, dear!
Once more a last adieu !
As swans of sable hue.”
The shape began to fade-
The Ghost was newly laid !
ON A LATE CATTLE SHOW IN SMITHFIELD.
Old Farmer Bull is taken sick,
Of fever, or his old dyspepsy ;
He had a fit of cattle-epsy!
ODE TO THE PRINTER’S DEVIL,
WHO BROUGHT ME A PROOF TO BE CORRECTED,
AND WHO FELL ASLEEP WHILE IT WAS UNDERGOING CORRECTION: BEING AN ODE FOUNDED ON FACT!
“Fallen Cherub!"-MILTON'S PARADISE Lost.
Oh bright and blessed hour ;-
Spirits but speak;
Sleep, Baby of the damned !
How quiet is thine eye!