I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses, I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises, At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat, And one from a Bailiff much faster than that; At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder, I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder, I've seen little boys run away from a cane, And I've seen, (that is, _read of_,) good running in Spain; But I never did read Of, or witness, such speed As David exerted that evening.--Indeed All I ever have heard of boys, women, or men, Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!" He reaches its brow,-- He has past it, and now Having once gain'd the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity; But, run as he will, Or roll down the hill, That bugbear behind him is after him still! And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking, Till, exhausted and sore, He can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door. And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, "Oh! Look at the Clock!--Do.--Look at the Clock!!" Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down, She saw nothing there to alarm her;--a frown Came o'er her white forehead, She said "It was horrid A man should come knocking at that time of night, And give her Mamma and herself such a fright; To squall and to bawl About nothing at all--" She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call, His late wife's disaster By no means had past her," She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!" Then, regardless alike of his love and his woes, She turn'd on her heel as she turn'd up her nose. Poor David in vain Implored to remain, He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again." Why the fair was obdurate None knows,--to be sure, it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;-- Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole Pryce could find to creep into that night was the Coal-hole! In that shady retreat, With nothing to eat, And with very bruis'd limbs, and with very sore feet, All night close he kept; I can't say he slept; But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept, Lamenting his sins And his two broken shins, Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, And her he once thought a complete _Rara Avis_, Consigning to Satan,--viz. cruel Miss Davis!