The monk and nun forgot their beads, They fell on the ground dismay’d, There was not a single saint in heaven Whom they did not call to aid. And the choristers song that late was so strong Grew a quaver of consternation, For the church did rock as an earthquake shock Uplifted its foundation. And a sound was heard like the trumpet’s blast That shall one day wake the dead, The strong church door could bear no more And the bolts and the bars they fled. And the taper’s light was extinguish’d quite, And the choristers faintly sung, And the priests dismay’d, panted and prayed Till fear froze every tongue. And in He came with eyes of flame The Fiend to fetch the dead, And all the church with his presence glowed Like a fiery furnace red. He laid his hand on the iron chains And like flax they moulder’d asunder, And the coffin lid that was barr’d so firm He burst with his voice of thunder. And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise And come with her master away, And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, At the voice she was forced to obey. She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, Her dead flesh quivered with fear, And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave Never did mortal hear. She followed the fiend to the church door, There stood a black horse there, His breath was red like furnace smoke, His eyes like a meteor’s glare. The fiendish force flung her on the horse And he leapt up before, And away like the lightning’s speed they went And she was seen no more. They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks For four miles round they could hear, And children at rest at their mother’s breast, Started and screamed with fear. The Surgeon’s Warning The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas. Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing here asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker and patentee lives by St. Martin’s Lane. The Doctor whispered to the Nurse And the Surgeon knew what he said, And he grew pale at the Doctor’s tale And trembled in his sick bed. Now fetch me my brethren and fetch them with speed The Surgeon affrighted said, The Parson and the Undertaker, Let them hasten or I shall be dead. The Parson and the Undertaker They hastily came complying, And the Surgeon’s Prentices ran up stairs When they heard that their master was dying. The Prentices all they entered the room By one, by two, by three, With a sly grin came Joseph in, First of the company. The Surgeon swore as they enter’d his door, ’Twas fearful his oaths to hear,— Now send these scoundrels to the Devil, For God’s sake my brethren dear.