“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 its 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 yourself kicked.
“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!
A Pathetic Ballad
’Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary’s ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bedside.
“O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.
“I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home
I didn’t stay long in it.
“The body-snatchers they have come
And made a snatch at me;
It’s very hard them kind of men
Won’t let a body be!
“You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent-like and chary,
But from her grave, in Mary-Bone,
They’ve come and boned your Mary.
“The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Doctor Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy’s.
“I vowed that you should have my hand,
But Fate gives us denial;
You’ll find it there, at Doctor Bell’s,
In spirits and a phial.
“As for my feet, the little feet
You used to find so pretty,
There’s one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The T’other’s in the City.
“I can’t tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can;
As for my trunk, it’s all packed up
To go by Pickford’s van.
“I wish you’d go to Mr. P.,
And save me such a ride;
I don’t half like the outside place
They’ve took for my inside.
“The cock it crows—I must be gone!
My William, we must part!
But I’ll be yours in death, altho’
Sir Astley has my heart.
“Don’t go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven’t left an atom there
Of my anatomie.”