“I think,” whispered Thickset, “they are making themselves up for mischief!” There was no time to be lost. Quickset again lugged Old Ball and Old Dumpling from the stable, while his companion tossed the brooms into the waggon. As soon as possible they drove out of the unlucky yard, and as they passed under the arch, I heard for the last time the voice of Thickset: “You’ve been to London before, and to be sure know best; but somehow, to my mind, the telling the untruth don’t seem to answer.” The only reply was a thwack, like the report of a pistol, on the crupper of each of the horses. The poor animals broke directly into something like a canter: and as the waggon turned a corner of the street, I shut down the sash, and resumed my “Illustrations of Lying.” [Illustration: STAGE EFFECT.] [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT: THE DUKE OF WELL---- AND PRINCE OF WATER--.] A WATERLOO BALLAD. To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter Stone. “O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here? I’m come to weep upon his corse, My Ninety-Second dear! “Into our town a serjeant came With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap--alas! His bow enlisted mine! “They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch; I thought that it was love and May, But it was love and March! “A sorry March indeed to leave The friends he might have kep’,-- No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step.” [Illustration: “THE IDES OF MARCH ARE COME!”] “O prithee tell, good sentinel, If hereabouts he lies? I want a corpse with reddish hair, And very sweet blue eyes.” Her sorrow on the sentinel Appear’d to deeply strike:-- “Walk in,” he said, “among the dead, And pick out which you like.” And soon she picked out Peter Stone, Half turned into a corse; A cannon was his bolster, and His mattress was a horse. “O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, Lord, here has been a skrimmage; What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?” “O Patty Head, O Patty Head, You’re come to my last kissing; Before I’m set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing!” [Illustration: WAR DANCE.--THE OPENING OF THE BALL.] “Alas! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don’t agree so well With stomachs as French bricks. “This very night a merry dance At Brussels was to be;-- Instead of opening a ball, A ball has open’d me. “Its billet every bullet has, And well it does fulfil it;-- I wish mine hadn’t come so straight, But been a ‘crooked billet.’ “And then there came a cuirassier And cut me on the chest;-- He had no pity in his heart, For he had _steel’d his breast_.