A PARODY ON “MARY’s GHOST;” OR, The Doctors AND BODY-SNATCHERS. A Pathetic Tale, WITH Numerous Additions NORWICH; Printed by Christopher Berry, Chettleburgh’s Court, Rampant Horse Street, St. Stephen’s. A PARODY ON “MARY’S GHOST.” “’Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep Young William tried; When Mary’s Ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bed-side.” “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 did not 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 to the eye; With roses growing o’er my grave, In _Dr-mm-nd’s Rosary_. But William dear, my rest was short, It was not very chary; Them boney-men, they did march in, And bone away your Mary. I wish you’d speak to Mr. D. Who owes the _patent_ ground; And tell him that his _patent_ graves, Are neither safe nor sound. I vow that his _new_ land-of-tombs, Made so genteel and pretty; Is not a bit more safer than, _Old_ Tombland in the City. Alas! it is a joint-stock-thing, The shares are down so _low_; E’re long they’ll break up all the _banks_, Of _Dr-mm-nd, Son & Co._ My tender body was pack’d-up, And in a sack did go; To be a _little_ body at, _Sir Dalley’s_ great depôt. I was cut up as _Stratford_ was, And _Y-ll-ly_ from Carrow; Came stealing in--and stole away, My brains and spinal-marrow. I vow’d that you should have my hand, But fate gives us denial; You’ll find it there at Doctor _Wr-ght’s_, In spirits and a phial. How very hard my William dear,-- How very hard the loss is; That both my legs should have to walk, The Surgery at _Cr-ss’s_. And that my arms,--the tender arms, That now in death do part us; Should both of them be taken down, To dwell at Doctor _C-rt-r’s_. As for my eyes,--the lovely eyes, That once beam’d from their sockets; You’ll find them both at Mr. _H-ll’s_, In his _large_ breeches-pockets. My very skull was lent to _St-rk_, Without any apology; And all my lumps and bumps he found, That are in Craniology. But when my skull came back from St-rk, That clever _organ-finder_; It was found out that _Cr-wc--r_ had, Pluck’d out--every grinder. As for my feet,--the little feet, You used to call so pretty; There’s one I know at the _Town-close_, The t’other’s in the _city_.