Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin; Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stocking-- Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em--none but--nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered--'Why, where _is_ the powder blew?'" "I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN."[30] [Footnote 30: Written in the album of Miss Smith, daughter of Mr. Horace Smith, of the Rejected Addresses. Miss Smith happily still survives to show her friends with pride these admirable verses, inscribed in Hood's neat and clear handwriting.] LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. A pretty task, Miss S----, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men. No lover's plaint my muse must paint To fill this page's span, But be correct and recollect I'm not a single man. Pray only think, for pen and ink How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn Or Love, the life of song! Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan, But one Miss S---- I daren't address-- I'm not a single man. Scribblers unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart, And in their lays it often plays A rare first-fiddle part. They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if _I_ so began, I have my fears about my ears-- I'm not a single man. Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip be warm, I must be wise about your eyes, And formal with your form; Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T.H. Bayly's plan, I must not twine a single line-- I'm not a single man. A watchman's part compels my heart To keep you off its _beat_, And I might dare as soon to swear At _you_, as at your feet. I can't expire in passion's fire As other poets can-- My life (she's by) won't let me die-- I'm not a single man. Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden bow and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart; To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd To flirt e'en with your fan, Here end, as just a friend, I must-- I'm not a single man. THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. A PATHETIC BALLAD. "Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--MERCUTIO I. 'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes, When all in hungry trim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim. II.