Well down she takes my master's horn--I mean his horn for loading, And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding.

Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper, I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper; You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff, But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff.

Well, when the pinch is over--'Teach your Grandmother to suck A powder horn,' says she--Well, says I, I wish you luck.

Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, 'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these; I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.

So in it goes, and Bounce--O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle!

Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks.

Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water.

I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap.

Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather; But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality.

Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother, Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other.

So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin; Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stocking-- Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em--none but--nobody was hurt!

Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump.

And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered--'Why, where _is_ the powder blew?'"

"I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN."[30]

[Footnote 30: Written in the album of Miss Smith, daughter of Mr.

Horace Smith, of the Rejected Addresses. Miss Smith happily still survives to show her friends with pride these admirable verses, inscribed in Hood's neat and clear handwriting.]

LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

A pretty task, Miss S----, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my muse must paint To fill this page's span, But be correct and recollect I'm not a single man.

Pray only think, for pen and ink How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn Or Love, the life of song!

Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan, But one Miss S---- I daren't address-- I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart, And in their lays it often plays A rare first-fiddle part.

They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if _I_ so began, I have my fears about my ears-- I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip be warm, I must be wise about your eyes, And formal with your form;

Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T.H. Bayly's plan, I must not twine a single line-- I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart To keep you off its _beat_, And I might dare as soon to swear At _you_, as at your feet.

I can't expire in passion's fire As other poets can-- My life (she's by) won't let me die-- I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden bow and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart;

To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd To flirt e'en with your fan, Here end, as just a friend, I must-- I'm not a single man.

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--MERCUTIO

I.

'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes, When all in hungry trim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

II.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup"-- When, whiter than the tablecloth, A GHOST came rising up!

III.

"O father dear, O mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim-- You know when some one went to sea-- Don't cry--but I am him!"

IV.

"You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your absent Jack, But oh, I am come here to say I'm never coming back!"

V.

"From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs!"

VI.

"The ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops."

VII.

"Just give a look in Norey's chart, The very place it tells; I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells."

VIII.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'

We have at last a call; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot too, and all."