In short, it was a kind of British Forum, Like John Gale Jones's, erst in Piccadilly, Only they managed things with more decorum, And the Orations were not _quite_ so silly; Far different questions, too, would come before 'em, Not always Politics, which, will ye nill ye, Their London prototypes were always willing, To give one _quantum suff._ of--for a shilling. It more resembled one of later date, And tenfold talent, as I'm told in Bow Street, Where kindlier natured souls do congregate, And, though there are who deem that same a low street, Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate And genuine humour it's surpassed by no street, When the "Chief Baron" enters, and assumes To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams." Here they would oft forget their Ruler's faults, And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper, Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapour, Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, And what the Romans wrote on ere they'd paper;-- This night the subject of their disquisitions Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprites, and Apparitions. One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man," Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel;"-- His well-read friend, who next to speak began, Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;" A third, of more extensive learning, ran To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal; Of sheeted Spectres spoke with shorten'd breath, And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death." Nick smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it, How, frequently, some murder'd man appear'd, To tell his wife and children who had done it; Or how a Miser's ghost, with grisly beard, And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, Wander'd about to watch his buried money! When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One,--he Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture Impended from his fond and faithful She; Nor could he well to pardon him expect her, For he had promised to "be home to tea;" But having luckily the key o' the back door, He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze, And hoax his spouse with music from his nose. Vain fruitless hope!--The wearied sentinel At eve may overlook the crouching foe, Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell, He sinks beneath the unexpected blow; Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell, When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go;-- But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary, --Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.