This self-same Clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan; And often among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out, Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout." That horrid word "Spout" No sooner came out, Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering willain, I know you'd be killing Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling! You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise, (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,) But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!" Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast; But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient, So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head. It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that; But, whatever it was,--whether rage and pain Produc'd apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble induc'd a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain,--but this I can, When, sobered by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne! The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Soon made a great noise; and the shocking fatality Like wild-fire ran over the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. Mr. Pryce, to commence His "ingenious defence," Made a "pow'rful appeal" to the jury's "good sense," "The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of "Malice Prepense;" The unlucky lick From the end of the stick He "deplored," he was "apt to be rather too quick;" But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant; all The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!" Then he called Mr. Jones, Who deposed to her tones, And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones." While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declared the Deceased Had styled him "a Beast," And swore they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, The allusions she made to his limbs and his eyes. The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy, Return'd about half-past eleven at night The following verdict, "We find, _Sarve her right!_"