Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks, And Martin sells the cock he plucks, And Jepp now deals in wine; Harrington bears a lawyer's bag, And warlike Lamb retains his flag, But on a tavern sign. They tell me Cockey Hawes's sword Is seen upon a broker's board: And as for "Fighting Jim," In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide, His unresisting cheek I spied Beneath a Quaker brim! Quarrelsome Scott is in the church, For Ryder now your eye must search The marts of silk and lace-- Bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute, And I--I've got a substitute To Soldier in my place! MARY'S GHOST. A PATHETIC BALLAD. 'Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bedside. O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; Alas! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces. I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home, I didn't stay long in it. The body-snatchers they have come, And made a snatch at me; It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be! You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent-like and chary, But from her grave in Mary-bone, They've come and boned your Mary. The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Dr. Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's. I vowed that you should have my hand, But fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's, In spirits and a phial. As for my feet, the little feet You used to call so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The t'other's in the City. I can't tell where my head is gone, But Doctor Carpue can; As for my trunk, it's all packed up To go by Pickford's van. I wish you'd go to Mr. P. And save me such a ride; I don't half like the outside place, They've took for my inside. The cock it crows--I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I'll be yours in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart. Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie. THE WIDOW. One widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh! If two should meet on such a job, They'll have a gossip by and by. If three should come together--why, Three widows are good company! If four should meet by any chance, Four is a number very nice, To have a rubber in a trice-- But five will up and have a dance! Poor Mrs. C---- (why should I not Declare her name?--her name was Cross) Was one of those the "common lot" Had left to weep "no common loss"; For she had lately buried then A man, the "very best of men," A lingering truth, discovered first Whenever men "are at the worst."