Not long liv’d the Baron; and none since that time, To inhabit the castle presume; For chronicles tell, that by order sublime, There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom. At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite, When mortals in slumber are bound, Array’d in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around. While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, Dancing round them pale spectres are seen; Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl,――“To the health of Alonzo the Brave, “And his consort, the false Imogine!” M. G. LEWIS. It is somewhat unusual for an author to parody himself, but in a volume entitled “_Tales of Wonder_” written and collected by M. G. Lewis, Esq., London 1801, he inserted “Alonzo the Brave,” with a parody written by himself. Of this, he remarked, that the idea of making an apothecary of the Knight, and a brewer of the baron, and some few of the lines, were taken from a parody which appeared in one of the newspapers under the title of “_Pil-Garlic the Brave, and Brown Celestine_.” It is to be regretted that he did not mention the author of the latter parody, nor the paper in which it originally appeared. GILES JOLLUP THE GRAVE AND BROWN SALLY GREEN. A Doctor so prim, and a sempstress so tight, Hob-a-nobb’d in some right maresquin, They suck’d up the cordial with truest delight: Giles Jollup the Grave was just five feet in height, And four feet the Brown Sally Green. “And as,” said Giles Jollup, “to-morrow I go “To physic a feverish land, “At some sixpenny-hop, or perhaps the mayor’s show, “You’ll tumble in love with some smart city beau, “And with him share your shop in the Strand.” “Lord, how can you think so?” Brown Sally Green said, “You must know mighty little of me, “For if you be living, or if you be dead, “I swear, ’pon my honor, that none in your stead “Shall husband of Sally Green be. “And if e’er for another my heart should decide, “False to you and the faith which I gave, “God grant that at dinner too amply supply’d, “Over-eating may give me a pain in my side; “May your ghost then bring rhubarb to physic the bride, “And send her well dos’d to the grave.” Away went poor Giles, to what place is not told; Sally wept till she blew her nose sore! But scarce had a twelve-month elaps’d, when, behold, A Brewer, quite stylish, his gig that way roll’d, And stopp’d it at Sally Green’s door. His wealth, his pot-belly, and whisky of cane, Soon made her untrue to her vows; The steam of strong beer now bewilder’d her brain, He caught her while tipsy! denials were vain, So he carried her home as his spouse.