The Idiot.

They laid her in the narrow house,
They sung the fun❜ral stave;
But when the fun'ral train dispers'd,
He loiter'd by the grave.

The rabble boys, who used to jeer
Whene'er they saw poor Ned,
Now stood and watched him at the grave,
And not a word they said.

They came and went, and came again,
Till night at last came on;
And still he loiter'd by the grave,

Till all the rest were gone.
And when he found himself alone,
He swift removed the clay,
And rais'd the coffin up in haste,
And bore it swift away.

And when he reached his hut, he laid
The coffin on the floor,

And with the eagerness of joy,

He barr'd the cottage door.

And out he took his mother's corpse,

And placed it in a chair,

And then he heap'd the hearth, and blew

The kindling fire with care.

He plac'd his mother in her chair,

And in her wonted place,

And blew the kindling fire, that shone
Reflected on her face.

And pausing, now her hand would feel,

And now her face behold;

'Why, mother, do you look so pale, "And why are you so cold?”

It had pleas'd God, from the poor wretch
His only friend to call,

But God was kind to him, and soon
In death, restored him all.

THE MAID OF THE MOOR;

OR, LORD HOPPERGOLLOP'S COOK MAID

AND THE GARDENER'S GHOST.

A Comic, Burlesque-poetic, Mock-terrific Tale.

SELECTED AND ABRIDGED FROM COLMAN'S BROAD GRINS.

On a wild moor all brown and bleak,
Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,
There stood a tenement antique,

Lord Hoppergollop's country house:

Neglected mansion; for 'tis said,

Whene'er the snow came feathering down,
Four barbed steeds from the King's Head
Carried the master up to town.

Swift whirl'd the wheels, he's gone.-A rose
Remains behind, whose virgin look,
Unseen, must blush in wint'ry snows;
Sweet beauteous blossom, 'twas the cook.

A bolder far than my weak note,

Maid of the moor, thy charms demand,
Eels might be proud to lose their coat,
If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.
Long had the fair one sat alone,

Had none remain'd save only she,
She by herself had been, if one

Had not been left for company.

'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue
Was ting'd with health and manly toil,
Cabbage he sow'd, and when it grew,
He always cut it up to boil.

A small mute favorite by day

Follow'd his step, where'er he wheels

His barrow round the garden gay,
A bobtail cur is at his heels.

The Maid of the Moor.

Hard toil'd the youth so fresh and strong,
While Bobtail in his face would look,
And mark his master trill the song,
"Sweet Molly Dumpling, O thou cook!"
Ah, not averse from love was she,
Tho' pure as heaven's snowy flake,
Both lov'd, and tho' a gard❜ner he,
He knew not what it was to rake.
Cold blows the blast, the night's obscure,
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack;
The sun had sunk, and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor, was black.
Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;
Much did she fear, and much admire,
What Thomas, gard'ner, cou'd be at.
List'ning, her hand supports her chin,
But ah! no foot is heard to stir,
He comes not from the garden in,
Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur.

She paces thro' the hall antique,
To call her Thomas from his toil,
Opens the huge door,-the hinges creek,
Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice on the threshold of the hall

She Thomas!" cried with many a sob,

And thrice on Bobtail did she call,

Exclaiming sweetly," Bob! Bob! Bob!"

Back through the hall she bent her way,
And all was solitude around;

The candle shed a feeble ray

Tho' a large mould of four to the pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew,

Adown her cheek a salt tear stole,

When, lo! a coffin out there flew,
And in her apron burnt a hole.

The Maid of the Moor.

Spiders their busy death-watch tick'd,—
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock click'd, click'd,—
A certain sign it was not down.
More strong and strong her terrors rose,
Her shadow did the maid appal;
She trembled at her lovely nose,

It look'd so long against the wall.
Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She climb'd Lord Hoppergollop's stair,
Three stories high, long, dull, and old,
As great Lord's stories often are.
All nature now appear'd to pause,

And o'er one half the world seem'd dead;
No curtain sleep had she-because
She had no curtains to her bed.

List'ning she lay,-with iron din

The clock struck twelve, the door flew wide, When Thomas grimly glided in,

With little Bobtail by his side.

Tall like the poplar was his size;

Green, green his waistcoat was as leeks;

Red, red as beet-root were his eyes,

And pale as turnips were his cheeks.

Soon as the spectre she espy'd,

The fear-struck damsel faintly said, "What would my Thomas?"-he reply'd, "Oh, Molly Dumpling, I am dead! "All in the flower of youth I fell,

"Cut off with healthful blossom crown'd; "I was not ill, but in a well

"I tumbled backwards and was drown'd. "Four fathom deep thy love doth lie,

"His faithful dog his fate doth share; "We're fiends, this is not he, nor I;

“We are not here, for we are there.

An Occasional Prologue.

"Yes, two foul water fiends are we:

"Maid of the moor, attend us now,
"Thy hour's at hand, we come for thee:'
The fiend cur said, " Bow, wow, wow!"

The fiends approach, the maid did shrink;
Swift thro' the night's foul air they spin;
They took her to the green well's brink,
And with a souse they plump'd her in.

So true the fair, so true the youth,
Maids to this day their story tell,
And hence the proverb rose, that truth
Lies in the bottom of a well.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN ON OPENING A NEW THEATRE.

The stoic's plan is futile, which requires,

Our wants supplied, by lopping our desires.
As well by this vague scheme might we propose,
Cut off your feet, 'twill save the price of shoes.
As well might we, thus courting public favour,
To gain your plaudits, lop off all endeavour.
The thought we spurn, be it our constant aim
By assiduity to gain a name,

Your approbation points the road to fame;
Each effort use, nor e'er a moment pause,
To reap that golden harvest,-your applause.
Sweet is the balm which hope's kind aid bestows,
To lighten grief, or mitigate our woes;
To raise desponding merit, banish fear,
And from the trembler wipe the falling tear;
To diffidence inspire, its dread beguile,
And doubt extinguish with a cheering smile;

That task be yours. My co-mates, with some dread,
Depute me here, their willing cause to plead;

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