This fearsome Old Woman was taken ill: A two-shilling phial Of green-looking fluid, like laver diluted, To which I profess an abhorrence most rooted. But, without saying Grace, Toss'd it off like a dram-it improved not her case. He now open'd a vein, Still the little old woman continued in pain. Should be sent for to shrive, and assoilize, and bless her, Growing afraid, He calls to his aid A bandy-legged neighbour, a 'Tailor by trade,'† Tells him his fears, Bids him lay by his shears, Alack for poor William Linley to settle the point! His elucidation of Mac. beth's Hurlyburly' casts a halo around his memory. In him the world lost one of its kindliest spirits, and the Garrick Club its acutest commentator. All who are familiar with the Police Reports, and other Records of our courts of Justice, will recollect that every gentleman of this particular profession invariably thus describes himself, in contradistinction to the Bricklayer, whom he probably presumes to be indigenous, and the Shoemaker born a Snob. VOL. VII. 35 His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie That he begs they'll all pray, Viz.: The whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay, That some erudite Friar Would run over at once, and examine, and try her; There was something behind,' A something that weigh'd on the Old Woman's mind,- Now I'd have you to know That this story of woe, Which I'm telling you, happen'd a long time ago; What particular monarch was then on the throne, Described in these rhymes, Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes; Sometimes betray'd an occasional taint or two, Went into hysterics, While scarcely a Convent but boasted its Saint or two: Of Saints rarely indeed With their dignified presence have darken'd our pew doors. "An antient and most pugnacious family," says a learned F. S. A. "One of their descendants, George Rose, Esq., late M. P. for Christchurch (an elderly gentle. man now defunct), was equally celebrated for his vocal abilities, and his wanton des truction of furniture when in a state of excitement. "Sing, old Rose, and burn the bellows!" has grown into a proverb. The worthy Jesuit's polemical publisher.-I am not quite sure as to the ortho. graphy; it's idem sonans, at all events. And the two now on duty were each, for their piety, Of And well might have borne Those words which are worn By our Nulli Secundus' Club-poor dear lost muttons A radish-bunch munch for a lunch, or a leek; That garnish'd the nose of the good Father Hilary That with Friars, who say Fifty Paters a night, and a hundred a day, The latter's concern For a speedy return Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals, The wearing clean linen, Which Friars must eschew at their very beginning, As for the rest, E'en if time had not prest, It didn't much matter how Basil was drest, Nor could there be any great need for adorning, The Night being almost at odds with the Morning. Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon is high, And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling in the sky, While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes whispering down the glen, And one fond voice alone is heard-oh! Night is lovely then! But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of pain, But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in vain,— When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light, Where all we love is fading fast-how terrible is Night!! |