“No, no--to be a carman’s wife Will ne’er suit Alice Payne; I’d better far a lone woman For evermore remain, Than have it said, while in my youth, My life is on the _wain_!” “Oh, Alice Payne! Oh, Alice Payne! Why won’t you meet with me?” Then up she curl’d her nose, and said, “Go axe your axletree; I tell you, Joe, this--once for all-- My _joe_ you shall not be.” She spoke the fatal “no,” which put A spoke into his wheel-- And stopp’d his happiness, as though She’d cry _wo!_ to his _weal_:-- These women ever steal our hearts, And then their own they _steel_. So round his melancholy neck Poor Joe his drag-chain tied, And hook’d it on a hook--“Oh! what A weight is life!” he cried; Then off he cast himself--and thus The cast-off carman died! Howbeit, as his son was set, (Poor Joe!) at set of sun, They laid him in his lowly grave, And gravely that was done; And she stood by, and laugh’d outright-- How wrong--the guilty one! But the day of retribution comes Alike to prince and hind, As surely as the summer’s sun Must yield to wintry wind: Alas! she did not mind his peace-- So she’d no peace of mind. For when she sought her bed of rest, Her rest was all on thorns; And there another lover stood, Who wore a pair of horns: His little tiny feet were cleft, And cloven, like a fawn’s; His face and garb were dark and black, As daylight to the blind; And a something undefinable Around his skirt was twin’d-- As if he wore, like other pigs, His pigtail out behind. His arms, though less than other men’s, By no means _harm-less_ were: Dark elfin locks en lock’d his brow-- You might not call them hair; And, oh! it was a _gas-tly_ sight To see his eye-balls glare. And ever, as the midnight bell Twelve awful strokes had toll’d, That dark man by her bedside stood, Whilst all her blood run cold; And ever and anon he cried, “I could a _tail_ unfold!” And so her strength of heart grew less, For heart-less she had been; And on her pallid cheek a small Red hectic spot was seen: You could not say her life was spent Without a spot, I wean. And they who mark’d that crimson light Well knew the treach’rous bloom-- A light that shines, alas! alas! To light us to our tomb: They said ’twas like thy cross, St. Paul’s, The _signal_ of her _doom_. And so it prov’d--she lost her health, When breath she needed most-- Just as the winning horse gets blown Close by the winning-post. The ghost, he gave up plaguing her-- So she gave up the ghost. H. L. * * * * * ~London.~ MODERN IMPROVEMENTS.