Who never right-abouted right, For he was deaf and dumb; Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray, And Dickey Bird, that wouldn't play Unless he had the drum.

And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp, A chap that never kept the step-- No more did "Surly Hugh;"

Bob Harrington, and "Fighting Jim"-- We often had to halt for him, To let him tie his shoe.

"Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick, That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick The plumes within his hat; Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout, That got so thump'd for calling out "Eyes right!" to "Squinting Matt."

Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd, Was always in the awkward squad, And those two greedy Blakes That took our money to the fair, To buy the corps a trumpet there, And laid it out in cakes.

Where are they now?--an open war With open mouth declaring for?-- Or fall'n in bloody fray?

Compell'd to tell the truth I am, Their fights all ended with the sham,-- Their soldiership in play.

Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks, And Martin sells the cock he plucks, And Jepp now deals in wine; Harrington bears a lawyer's bag, And warlike Lamb retains his flag, But on a tavern sign.

They tell me Cockey Hawes's sword Is seen upon a broker's board: And as for "Fighting Jim,"

In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide, His unresisting cheek I spied Beneath a Quaker brim!

Quarrelsome Scott is in the church, For Ryder now your eye must search The marts of silk and lace-- Bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute, And I--I've got a substitute To Soldier in my place!

MARY'S GHOST.

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 Dr. 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 Dr. Bell's, In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet You used to call 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.

THE WIDOW.

One widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh!

If two should meet on such a job, They'll have a gossip by and by.

If three should come together--why, Three widows are good company!

If four should meet by any chance, Four is a number very nice, To have a rubber in a trice-- But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C---- (why should I not Declare her name?--her name was Cross) Was one of those the "common lot"

Had left to weep "no common loss"; For she had lately buried then A man, the "very best of men,"

A lingering truth, discovered first Whenever men "are at the worst."

To take the measure of her woe, It was some dozen inches deep-- I mean in crape, and hung so low, It hid the drops she did _not_ weep: In fact, what human life appears, It was a perfect "veil of tears."

Though ever since she lost "her prop And stay"--alas! he wouldn't stay-- She never had a tear to mop, Except one little angry drop From Passion's eye, as Moore would say, Because, when Mister Cross took flight, It looked so very like a spite-- He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week, As if "to wet a widows' cheek,"

And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy-- 'Twas nothing but a make-believe, She might as well have hoped to grieve Enough of brine to float a navy; And yet she often seemed to raise A cambric kerchief to her eye-- A _duster_ ought to be the phrase, Its work was all so very dry.

The springs were locked that ought to flow-- In England or in widow-woman-- As those that watch the weather know, Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains To call upon the "dear remains"-- Remains that could not tell a jot Whether she ever wept or not, Or how his relict took her losses?

Oh! my black ink turns red for shame-- But still the naughty world must learn, There was a little German came To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn,"

At the next grave to Mr. Cross's!

For there an angel's virtues slept, "Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!"

But still her painted face he kept, "Encompassed in an angel's frame."

He looked quite sad and quite deprived, His head was nothing but a hat-band; He looked so lone, and so _un_wived, That soon the Widow Cross contrived To fall in love with even _that_ band!

And all at once the brackish juices Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices-- Tear after tear too fast to wipe, Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped again-- No leak in sorrow's private pipe, But like a bursting on the main!

Whoe'er has watched the window-pane-- I mean to say in showery weather-- Has seen two little drops of rain, Like lovers very fond and fain, At one another creeping, creeping, Till both, at last, embrace together: So fared it with that couple's weeping!

The principle was quite as active-- Tear unto tear Kept drawing near, Their very blacks became attractive.

To cut a shortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting _tete-a-tete_-- Two cups--hot muffins on a plate-- With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water!

The brazen vessel for awhile Had lectured in an easy song, Like Abernethy,--on the bile-- The scalded herb was getting strong; All seemed as smooth as smooth could be, To have a cosy cup of tea.

Alas! how often human sippers With unexpected bitters meet, And buds, the sweetest of the sweet, Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told, Had seen three husbands to the mould: She never sought an Indian pyre, Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves; But, with a proper sense of fire, Put up, instead, with "three removes."

Thus, when with any tender words Or tears she spoke about her loss, The dear departed Mr. Cross Came in for nothing but his thirds; For, as all widows love too well, She liked upon the list to dwell, And oft ripped up the old disasters.

She might, indeed, have been supposed A great _ship_ owner; for she prosed Eternally of her Three Masters!

Thus, foolish woman! while she nursed Her mild souchong, she talked and reckoned What had been left her by her first, And by her last, and by her second.

Alas! not all her annual rents Could then entice the little German-- Not Mr. Cross's Three per Cents, Or Consols, ever make him _her_ man.

He liked her cash, he liked her houses, But not that dismal bit of land She always settled on her spouses.