A Bartlemy Fair shower of rain overtook us while we were contemplating the dilapidated mansion of the Cock Lane Ghost; and, as it never rains in Bartle-my Fair, but it pours, we scudded along to the parlour of The Fortune of War, as our nearest shelter; where we beheld Mr. Bosky, though he beheld not us, bombarding his little body with cutlets and bottled beer, in company with a tragedy queen; a motion-master; and a brace of conjurors, Mr. Rumfiz and Mr. Glumfiz. Mr. Rumfiz was a merry fellow, who had fattened on blue fire, which he hung out for a sign upon his torrid nose; with Mr. Glumfiz dolor seemed to wait on drinking, and melancholy on mastication; for he looked as if he had been regaling on fishhooks and castor-oil, instead of Mr. Bosky's bountiful cheer. “'Tis hard to bid good-b'ye to an old friend that we may never see again! Heigho! I'm sorry and sick; as cross and as queer as the hatband of Dick! Good-b'ye to St. Bartholomew.” This was sighed forth by the lean conjuror, who, as he emitted a cloud of tobacco-smoke, seemed ready to pipe his eye, and responded to by the tragedy queen with a look ultra tragical! “Bah!” chuckled the corpulent conjuror, “à bas the blue devils! If ruin must come, good luck send that it may be blue. Though poor in purse, let me be rich in nose! Saint Bartlemy in a consumption--ha! ha! Pinched for standing-room, the comical old grig laughs and lies down! and, so droll he looks in dissolution, that I must have my lark out, though one of his boa-con-strictors should threaten to suck me down in a lump. He dies full of years and fun, the patriarch of posture-masters and puppet-showmen! Merry be his memory! and Scaramouches eternal caper round his sarcophagus! Shall we cry him a canting canticle? Rather let us chant a rattling roundelay!” Major Domo's a comical homo I Sic transit gloria mundi; Highty-tighty I frolicksome,, flighty I Soon will Bartlemy Fair and fun die. Coat of motley, cap and bells, O'er his bier shall dolefully jingle; Conjurors all shall bear his pall, And mountebanks follow it, married and single! Giants, dwarfs in sable scarfs. Merry mourners! will not tarry one; Humps, bumps shall stir their stumps! And toes of timber dot and carry one! Harlequin droll the bell shall toll, Mister Punch shall shrive and bury him; Tumblers grin while they shovel him in, And Charon send Joe Grim to ferry him! B'ye, b'ye! we all must die; Ev'ry day with death's a dun day; Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday!