So runs the story, And, in vain self-glory, Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness; But what the better are their pious saws To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness? DEATH'S RAMBLE. THOMAS HOOD. One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel. His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank; His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed Like a butcher that kills his own. The first he slaughtered it made him laugh (For the man was a coffin-maker), To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker. Death saw two Quakers sitting at church; Quoth he, "We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer. He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once--for he knew They never would shoot each other. He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal." He met a coachman driving a coach So slow that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the QUICK. Death saw a tollman taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summoned to all eternity. He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther! Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee" Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum." He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust. He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for death, And never on rum-and-water. Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump! THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. THOMAS HOOD. My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?