Poor David in vain Implored to remain, He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again." Why the fair was obdurate None knows,--to be sure, it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;-- Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole! In that shady retreat With nothing to eat, And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, All night close he kept; I can't say he slept; But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept; Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins, Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, And her he once thought a complete _Rara Avis_, Consigning to Satan,--viz., cruel Miss Davis! Mr. David has since had a "serious call," He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, And they say he is going to Exeter Hall To make a grand speech, And to preach, and to teach People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!" That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR, Was right in proclaiming "ARISTON MEN UDOR!" Which means "The pure Element Is for Man's belly meant!" And that _Gin's_ but a _Snare_ of Old Nick the deluder! And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up," At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup, Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into "The Chair," And make all his _quondam_ associates stare By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter, "Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!" The dial he constantly watches; and when The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.," He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs, Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his President's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly--"Gentlemen! "LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!" * * * * * The succeeding Legend has long been an established favourite with all of us, as containing much of the personal history of one of the greatest ornaments of the family tree. To the wedding between the sole heiress of this redoubted hero and a direct ancestor is it owing that the Lioncels of Shurland hang so lovingly parallel with the Saltire of the Ingoldsbys, and now form as cherished a quartering in their escutcheon as the "dozen white lowses" in the "old coat" of Shallow. GREY DOLPHIN. A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY. "He won't--won't he? Then bring me my boots!" said the Baron. Consternation was at its height in the castle of Shurland--a caitiff had dared to disobey the Baron! and--the Baron had called for his boots! A thunderbolt in the great hall had been a _bagatelle_ to it.