They are pulling you all sorts of ways, ~Bloudie Jacke~! They are twisting your right leg Nor-West, And your left leg due South, And your knee's in your mouth, And your head is poked down on your breast, And it's prest, I protest, almost into your chest! They have pulled off your arms and your legs, ~Bloudie Jacke~! As the naughty boys serve the blue flies; And they've torn from their sockets, And put in their pockets Your fingers and thumbs for a prize! And your eyes A Doctor has bottled--from Guy's.[45] Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn, ~Bloudie Jacke~! They hew, and they hack, and they chop; And, to finish the whole, They stick up a pole In the place that's still called the "~Wylde Coppe~," And they pop Your grim gory head on the top! They have buried the fingers and toes, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Of the victims so lately your prey. From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes, "~Ladyes' fyngers~" they're called to this day; --So they say,-- And you usually dig them in May. What became of the dear little girl? ~Bloudie Jacke~! What became of the young Mary-Anne? Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid, For she fancied that every Young Man Had a plan To trepan her like "poor Sister Fan!" So they say she is now leading apes, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And mends Bachelors' small-clothes below; The story is old, And has often been told, But I cannot believe it is so-- No! No! Depend on't the tale is "No Go!" MORAL. And now for the moral I'd fain, ~Bloudie Jacke~! That young Ladies should draw from my pen,-- It's--"Don't take these flights Upon moon-shiny nights, With gay, _harum-scarum_ young men, Down a glen!-- You really can't trust one in ten!" Let them think of your terrible Tower, ~Bloudie Jacke~; And don't let them liberties take, Whether Maidens or Spouses, In Bachelors' houses; Or, some time or another, they'll make A Mistake! And lose--more than a ~Shrewsberrie Cake~!! FOOTNOTES: [41] "The Pope is said--this fact is hardly credible--to have sold the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvidere to the Emperor of Russia for nine million of francs."--_Globe and Traveller._ [42] Oh, Pailin! Prince of cake-compounders! the mouth liquefies at thy very name--but there!