That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots, With a couple more soakers, Thoroughbred smokers, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; And, long after day had drawn to a close, And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;" While David himself, to a Sassenach tune, Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon! What have we with day to do? Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 't was made for you!"-- At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door: And then came that knock, And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!" For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three! That self-same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan; And often, among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out, Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout." That horrid word "Spout" No sooner came out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling! You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock), But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!" Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast, But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient, So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head; It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But whatever it was,--whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain,--but THIS I can, When sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was dead as Queen Anne! The fatal catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.