Then halting there, the spectre cried, In accents like a knell, "T'was here I fought a duel once, And there it was I fell! Behold a thistle growing there, And yon a shamrock too, And there in every season past, A little wild rose grew, A nursery in miniature, Of sign of Kingdoms three, That sprang spontaneous thro' the sod, From blood, that flowed from me, For lo! my sire was Rupert Smith, My mater was a Lynch; My grandmother per pater, was A Flora Jane Mac Tinch, An uncle, on the mother's side, A Belfast Macinfee, This made the union perfect, And embodied thus in me, Was typed the British Empire, Per my consanguinitee. And it's an interesting fact, That Wales can share the fame, And pride, of my nativity, For, Jones, it was the name, My mother first accepted, as A matrimonial claim; But Jones was testily inclined, And all about a myth, In jealous hate, he fell before The blade, of Rupert Smith! Then Rupert Smith, he minded of The widow's wail, and tear, And in remorse, he married her, As consequence, I'm here! The record of my gallant sire, To hot complexion grew, In me, till I was minded of A cause, for fighting too. I knew a maid, and for her sake, My daily life was fuss, It is not always for a maid, A man's affected thus; But when she wasn't by my side, I felt how lonely, space Would be, if man could not behold, A single woman's face. And so I fondled, petted her, And worried, wrote some rhymes, And even got them published, in A small, suburban times, I took some pestilential pains, To learn the minuet, And trained my voice, to harmonise, With her's, in the duet. [Illustration] We married were, I faith! it was A festal day, for hope, To care we gave the congè, and To pleasure, extra scope, Until one day, my joy was washed Away, like scented soap! 'Twas on this wise,-- In Rotten Row, Midst fashionable life, I found a promenader there, In converse, with my wife! I parleyed not a moment, but Asserting manhood's law, [Illustration]