Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down, At three in the morning we drove out of town: A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life, And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife, It was a fit season for murders and rapes, For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:-- So, with something to think of, but little to say, The driver drove on, looking out for the way, 'Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill, Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still-- "Are you sure you have took the right road?"--queried Snip; "I am"--said the driver--and crack'd with his whip. Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road, And away went the waggon, with all its full load; Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over, Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover, Where shatter'd and shiver'd--no glimpse yet of day, A mass of destruction, together we lay! Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone, And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan, The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins, Contrition of heart, and confession of sins. First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef, And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief:[J] A writ he demanded, as soon as 'twas day, And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay? Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane, And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain. As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled, And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head; The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap: There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt, For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport: His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese; And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?-- Then, rolling away on the side of the hill, With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still: At last he bawl'd out--"I'm sick at my heart! Come hither, companions, and see me depart! Snipinda, Snipinda!--alas, I must leave her-- And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver, Who never would give me a moment of rest 'Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest! But a time will arrive (if I deem not amiss) When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this-- May his breeches, be always too big for his wear, Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear; May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short, And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;-- And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return, Tell Doctor Sangrado 'tis needless to mourn: Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing, Where white linen stockings will ever be clean, And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen; Where with old Continental our debts we can pay, And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day; Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd,