Incensed at her flight, her poor hubby in dudgeon Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout, Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon, Sat down and blubber'd just like a church spout. One day on a bench as dejected and sad he laid, Hearing a squash, he cried, "Hullo, what's that?" 'Twas a child of the Count's, in whose service lived Adelaide, Soused in the river and squalled like a cat. Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear, No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket, Exposed as he was to the Count's _son_ and _heir_. "Dear sir," quoth the Count, "in reward of your valour, To show that my gratitude is not mere talk, You shall eat a beefsteak which my cook, Mrs. Haller, Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork." Behold, now the Count gave the Stranger a dinner, With gunpowder tea, which you know brings a ball, And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner, He made of the Stranger no stranger at all; At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken, A bird that she never had met with before, But, seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off, kicking, And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door. To finish my tale without roundaboutation, Young master and missee besieged their papa, They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation; The Stranger cried "Oh!" Mrs. Haller cried "Ah!" Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in, I have no good moral to give in exchange, For though she as a cook might be given to melting, The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange, With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em, And pathos and bathos delightful to see, And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum, And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee. CASE NO. III. GEORGE BARNWELL. George Barnwell stood at the shop door, A customer hoping to find, sir; His apron was hanging before, But the tail of his coat was behind, sir. A lady so painted and smart, Cried, "Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late, I've got nothing left but a groat, Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate? Rum ti, &c. Her face was rouged up to the eyes, Which made her look prouder and prouder, His hair stood on end with surprise, And hers with pomatum and powder. The business was soon understood; The lady, who wish'd to be more rich, Cries, "Sweet sir, my name is Milwood, And I lodge at the Gunner's, in Shoreditch." Rum ti, &c. Now nightly he stole out, good lack, And into her lodging would pop, sir, And often forgot to come back, Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir, Her beauty his wits did bereave; Determin'd to be quite the crack O, He lounged at the Adam and Eve, And call'd for his gin and tobacco. Rum ti, &c.