Tom tipp'd a wink, and scamper'd off like winkin, in high feather; The parson fee'd-the wedding folks had all a feed together! His room with friends was over-run, his cup of bliss run over; He took to moping-mops and brooms!—his wife took him to Dover The doctor recommended air, and exercise, and jaunting Quoth Tom," Hang exercise and air! when, zounds! the right heir's wanting!" Away they tripp'd to Bagnigge Wells, to Turnham Green, and Chelsea; "Twas Fair time, and St. Bartlemy had got a merry touch for him; But rattles, jews-harps, salt-boxes, horns, muffs, might be too much for him! He quite forgot his chronic pains, among his gay old cronies; And munch'd his supper in the pens, of mustard and polonies; The beer bred wit and bravery, and he resolv'd to thump any That cross'd him as he homeward reel'd, and roar'd "Whitbread and Company!" He reach'd his room at two o'clock, the candles in the casement, Foretold the livers by their lights, were all in queer amazement ! Such hurry, scurry, mobbing, sobbing, down stairs, ay, and tearing up! "Here's h-ll and Tommy now to do;" cries Tom, "my wife is flaring up!" Ah! what a sight did he behold, how ghostily and dreadful, When peeping through the door, he threw his peepers on the bed full. There Wilhelmina Shuttle lay, poor lamb, as dead as mutton! Her cheek much whiter than the gown so lily-white she'd put on; A bodkin stuck fast in her side, a letter penn'd so neatly In German Text! bespoke her death, and told the cause completely; "Dear Tom, you run stark mad for joy, now try a touch of sadness; You'll find in grief a great relief—I die, to cure your madness!" Tom stood aghast-""Tis love! 'tis love! how furious, fond, and fickle hers!" And then he wrote her dad in rhyme the full and true partic❜lars; Soon after this felo-de-se, among the prime odd fellows, His spirits rose, he rose to sing, "Old Rose, and burn the bellows!" He cut the loom, a stroller turn'd, and in the Tale of Mystery, He courts Miss Tree!-and so concludes our strange, eventful Hist'ry. SAM TWIST. A LEGEND OF ST. BENNET-FINK. Which may be chanted to the Tune of " My Love SAM TWIST was a tailor in Threadneedle-street, His spirits were low, and his fever was high; He lost all his gumption, by a gallopping consumption, And though he didn't like it, he was like to die! "I dispose of, I'm so indispos'd, to my rib, All the goods in my shop, and the money in my till ; Though oft, common case! I'd her claws in my face, I sha'n't scratch her off, by a clause in my will! My dear, I'll be dress'd like a buck, in my best, Charon won't care a rap, if I'm wrapp'd in a shroud; I'll march to his boat in my blue Sunday coat, For fear Mr. Twist should be lost in the crowd! "And if you wed, ah me! a cher ami, Your bed shall be haunted by dolorous tics; My ghost shall knock as it strikes twelve o'clock, And knock you both to spinnage, I swear by Styx!" From top to toe Sam was rigg'd like a beau, Lucy's courage screw'd up, to see him screw'd down ; 66 my heart is beating! was there ever such a sweeting? Except in Sweeting's Alley, where there lives Now Tom, under favour, a good-looking shaver, Earn'd his mutton and trimmings by the beards that he trimm'd; His whiskers and jazey set all the women crazy, And he clapp'd their hearts in limbo, he was so smart limb'd! She put off her starch way, her high gait, and arch way, They hob and nob buzz'd, till 'twas buzz'd thro' the town, Some fine day in summer,as black did not become her, Widow Twist, dress'd in white, would be chang'd into Brown! |