John Jones he was a builder’s clerk, On ninety pounds a year, Before his head was engine-turn’d To be an engineer! For, finding that the iron roads Were quite the public tale, Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart Was set upon a rail. But oh! his schemes all ended ill, As schemes must come to nought, With men who try to make short cuts, When cut with something short. His altitudes he did not take, Like any other elf; But first a spirit-level took, That levelled him, himself. Then getting up, from left to right So many tacks he made, The ground he meant to go upon Got very well survey’d. How crows may fly he did not care A single fig to know;-- He wish’d to make an iron road, And not an iron crow. So, going to the Rose and Crown, To cut his studies short, The nearest way from _pint_ to _pint_, He found was through a quart. According to this rule he plann’d His railroad o’er a cup; But when he came to lay it down, No soul would take it up! Alas! not his the wily arts Of men as shrewd as rats, Who out of one sole _level_ make A precious lot of _flats_! In vain from Z to crooked S, His devious line he show’d; Directors even seemed to wish For some directer road. The writers of the public press All sneered at his design; And penny-a-liners wouldn’t give A penny for his line. [Illustration: OVERTAKER AND UNDERTAKER.] [Illustration: THE BATH GUIDE.] Yet still he urged his darling scheme, In spite of all the fates; Until at last his zigzag ways Quite brought him into _straits_. His money gone, of course he sank In debt from day to day,-- His way would not pay _him_--and so He could not pay his way. Said he, “All parties run me down-- How bitter is my cup! My landlord is the only man That ever runs me up! “And he begins to talk of scores, And will not draw a cork;”-- And then he rail’d at Fortune, since He could not rail at York! The morrow, in a fatal noose They found him hanging fast; This sentence scribbled on the wall,-- “I’ve got my line at last!” Twelve men upon the body sate, And thus, on oath, did say, “We find he got his _gruel_, ‘cause He couldn’t have his _way_!” POMPEY’S GHOST. A PATHETIC BALLAD. “Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.”--COWPER. ’Twas twelve o’clock, not twelve at night, But twelve o’clock at noon, Because the sun was shining bright, And not the silver moon: A proper time for friends to call, Or Pots, or Penny Post; When, lo! as Phœbe sat at work, She saw her Pompey’s Ghost!