No county from his tricks was safe;
  In each he tried his lucks,
And when the keepers were in Beds,
  He often was at Bucks.

And when he went to Bucks, alas! 
  They always came to Herts;
And even Oxon used to wish
  That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual Hants,
  Old Cheshire laid his plots: 
He got entrapp’d by legal Berks,
  And lost his life in Notts.

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
  And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
  To look for Peter Stone.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,
  If I shall find him here? 
I’m come to weep upon his corse,
  My Ninety-Second dear!

“Into our town a sergeant came,
  With ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap—­alas! 
  His bow enlisted mine!

“They taught him how to turn his toes,
  And stand as stiff as starch;
I thought that it was love and May,
  But it was love and March!

“A sorry March indeed to leave
  The friends he might have kep’,—­
No March of Intellect it was,
  But quite a foolish step.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,
  If hereabout he lies? 
I want a corpse with reddish hair,
  And very sweet blue eyes.”

Her sorrow on the sentinel
  Appear’d to deeply strike:—­
“Walk in,” he said, “among the dead,
  And pick out which you like.”

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,
  Half turned into a corse;
A cannon was his bolster, and
  His mattrass was a horse.

“O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,
  Lord, here has been a skrimmage! 
What have they done to your poor breast
  That used to hold my image?”

“O Patty Head, O Patty Head,
  You’re come to my last kissing;
Before I’m set in the Gazette
  As wounded, dead, and missing!

“Alas! a splinter of a shell
  Right in my stomach sticks;
French mortars don’t agree so well
  With stomachs as French bricks.

“This very night a merry dance
  At Brussels was to be;—­
Instead of opening a ball,
  A ball has open’d me.

“Its billet every bullet has,
  And well it does fulfil it;—­
I wish mine hadn’t come so straight. 
  But been a ‘crooked billet.’

“And then there came a cuirassier
  And cut me on the chest;—­
He had no pity in his heart,
  For he had steel’d his breast.

“Next thing a lancer, with his lance,
  Began to thrust away;
I call’d for quarter, but, alas! 
  It was not Quarter-day.

“He ran his spear right through my arm,
  Just here above the joint;—­
O Patty dear, it was no joke,
  Although it had a point.

“With loss of blood I fainted off,
  As dead as women do—­
But soon by charging over me,
  The Coldstream brought me to.