They have dragg'd her to land, Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand, To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack, Which Though they guess pretty well, way that grim rider and old woman go, For all see he's a sort of infernal Ducrow; And she scream'd so, and cried, We may fairly decide That the old woman did not much relish her ride! MORAL. This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt One marvel follows another as naturally as one "shoulder of mutton" is said "to drive another down." A little Welch girl, who sometimes made her way from the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such authority, I shall call PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY. "LOOK AT THE CLOCK!" FYTTE I. "Look at the Clock !" quoth Winifred Pryce, Wretch, every day you Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you? Me in a fright; Staggering home as it's just getting light! Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean, Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green, And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; A face like a ferret Betoken'd her spirit: To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young, Had very short legs, and a very long tongue. Now David Pryce Had one darling vice; Remarkably partial to anything nice, If it was not too stale I really believe he 'd have emptied a pail ; They talk of their Ales; To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W. That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; And, long after day had drawn to a close, And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out "Shenkin !” and “Ar hydd y nos;" While David himself, to a Sassenach tune, Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!" What have we with day to do? Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you! At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, And then came that knock, And the sensible shock !" David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!" For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, This self-same Clock had long been a bone With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd No sooner came out, 66 a Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, 66 And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, Spout." Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip. "You thundering willain, I know you'd be killing Your wife, ay, a dozen of wives,-for a shilling ! You may sell my chemise, (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,) Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast; And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; But walking just then wasn't very convenient, Direct at her head. It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But, whatever it was,-whether rage and pain Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, His "ingenious defence," Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense," "The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of " Malice Prepense;" The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He "deplored," he was "apt to be rather too quick ;” But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant ; all The rest, he assured them, was 66 quite accidental !” Then he called Mr. Jones, Who deposed to her tones, And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones." While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declared the Deceased Had styled him "a Beast," |