You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent like and chary, But from her grave in Mary-bone They’ve come and bon’d your Mary. VI. The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Dr. Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy’s. VII. I vow’d that you should have my hand, But fate gives us denial; You’ll find it there, at Doctor Bell’s, In spirits and a phial. VIII. As for my feet, the little feet You used to call so pretty, There’s one, I know, in Bedford Row, The t’other’s in the city. IX. I can’t tell where my head is gone, But Dr. Carpuc can: As for my trunk, it’s all pack’d up To go by Pickford’s van. X. I wish you’d go to Mr. P. And save me such a ride; I don’t half like the outside place, They’ve took for my inside. XI. The cock it crows--I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I’ll be your’s in death, altho’ Sir Astley has my heart. XII. Don’t go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven’t left an atom there Of my anatomie. ODE TO MR. BRUNEL. “Well said, old Mole! canst work i’ the dark so fast? a worthy pioneer!” HAMLET. Well!----Monsieur Brunel, How prospers now thy mighty undertaking, To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends Of Rotherhithe, and Wapping,-- Never be stopping, But poking, groping, in the dark keep making An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons, For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons, To cross the water in inverse proportion, Walk under steam-boats under the keel’s ridge, To keep down all extortion, And without sculls to diddle London Bridge! In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry, Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow, Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey, To give us the “View hollow.” In short it was thy aim, right north and south, To put a pipe into old Thames’s mouth; Alas! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof, Came, like “a tide in the affairs of men;” And with a mighty stormy kind of roar, Reproachful of thy wrong, Burst out in that old song Of Incledon’s, beginning “Cease, rude Bore”-- Sad is it, worthy of one’s tears, Just when one seems the most successful, To find one’s self o’er head and ears In difficulties most distressful! Other great speculations have been nursed, Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf; But thy concern was at the worst, When it began to _liquidate_ itself! But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden, And languishes thy Tunnel,--so to paint, Under a slow incurable complaint, Bed-ridden!