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 widow’d 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 came thus 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 Phoenix 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!
“O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.!
Are these your sorrow’s deeds,
Already getting up a flame,
To burn your widows’ 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!
“Yet if my face you still retrace,
I almost have 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;
O 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!
“And you, Sir — once a bosom friend —
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider you are kick’d.
“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!