And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, He can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door, And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, Miss Davis looked up, Miss Davis looked down, She said, "It was horrid A man should come knocking at that time of night, She begged About nothing at all!" "he'd not think of repeating his call: By no means had past her;" She'd "have him to know she was meat for his master!" Poor David in vain Implored to remain 66 ; He "dared not," he said, cross the mountain again." Why the fair was obdurate None knows, to be sure, it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate. Pryce found to creep into that night was the coal-hole! And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, But he sighed, and he sobbed, and he groaned, and he wept; And his two broken shins, Bewailing his fate, with contortions and grins, Mr. David has since had a serious call," He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, And to preach, and to teach People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small," 66 Which means "The pure Is for Man's belly meant!" Element And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder! And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up," At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup, Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into "The Chair," And make all his quondam associates stare 66 Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!" The dial he constantly watches; and when The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at " X.," He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs, Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his president's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly-" Gentlemen! "LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!" (By permission of Mr. Bentley.) 2. THE RED FISHERMAN. W. M. PRAED. [See page 448.] THE Abbot arose, and closed his book, A starlight sky was o'er his head, A quiet breeze around; And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed, It was not an hour, nor a scene for aught Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought He clasped his gilded rosary, But he did not tell the beads: If he look'd to the Heaven, 'twas not to invoke If he opened his lips, the words they spoke A pious Priest might the Abbot seem, He had swayed the crosier well: But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, The Abbot was loth to tell. Companionless, for a mile or more, And rocks whose very crags seem bowers, As a lover thinks of constancy, Or an advocate of truth. He did not mark how the skies in wrath He did not mark how the mossy path The water had slept for many a year, From the river stream it spread away, The surface had the hue of clay, And the scent of human blood; The trees and the herbs that round it grew And the birds that through the bushes flew Were the vulture and the owl; The water was as dark and rank As ever a company pumped; And the perch that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped : And bold was he who thither came At midnight, man or boy; For the place was cursed with an evil name, And that name was 66 The Devil's Decoy!" The Abbot was weary as Abbot could be, And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree; When suddenly rose a dismal tone Was it a song, or was it a moan? 66 Oh, ho! Oh, ho! Above,-below! Lightly and brightly they glide and go: In a monstrous fright, by the murky light, The startled Priest struck both his thighs, You would have sworn, as you looked on them, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye: From the bowels of the earth, Cold, by this, was the midnight air: But the Abbot's blood ran colder, For he who writhed in mortal pain, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, It was a haunch of princely size, Could better have guessed the very wood Sounded then the noisy glee, Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork, But where'er the board was spread, Pulling and tugging the fisherman sate; There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, It was a bundle of beautiful things, A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings, A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl, A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl, And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours rolled, |