A two-shilling phial Of green-looking fluid, like laver diluted, But, without saying Grace, Toss'd it off like a dram-it improved not her case. He now open'd a vein, Still the little old woman continued in pain. Should be sent for to shrive, and assoilize, and bless her, Alack for poor William Linley to settle the point! His elucidation of Mac. beth's Hurlyburly' casts a halo around his memory. In him the world lost one of its kindliest spirits, and the Garrick Club its acutest commentator. † All who are familiar with the Police Reports, and other Records of our courts of Justice, will recollect that every gentleman of this particular profession invariably thus describes himself, in contradistinction to the Bricklayer, whom he probably presumes to be indigenous, and the Shoemaker born a Snob. His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie That he begs they'll all pray, Viz.: The whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay, That some erudite Friar Would run over at once, and examine, and try her; There was something behind,' A something that weigh'd on the Old Woman's mind,- Now I'd have you to know That this story of woe, Which I'm telling you, happen'd a long time ago; What particular monarch was then on the throne, Described in these rhymes, Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes; Unseemly gaiety Sometimes betray'd an occasional taint or two, Went into hysterics, While scarcely a Convent but boasted its Saint or two: Of Saints rarely indeed With their dignified presence have darken'd our pew doors. "One of "An antient and most pugnacious family," says a learned F. S. A. their descendants, George Rose, Esq., late M. P. for Christchurch (an elderly gentle. man now defunct), was equally celebrated for his vocal abilities, and his wanton des truction of furniture when in a state of excitement. Sing, old Rose, and burn the bellows!" has grown into a proverb. The worthy Jesuit's polemical publisher.-I am not quite sure as to the ortho graphy; it's idem sonans, at all events. And the two now on duty were each, for their piety, 'Second to none' in that holy society, And well might have borne Those words which are worn By our 'Nulli Secundus' Club-poor dear lost muttons A radish-bunch munch for a lunch, or a leek; Ascribed certain rubies That garnish'd the nose of the good Father Hilary That with Friars, who say Fifty Paters a night, and a hundred a day, The latter's concern For a speedy return Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals, Had worn the last twenty years-probably thirty, The wearing clean linen, Which Friars must eschew at their very beginning, E'en if time had not prest, It didn't much matter how Basil was drest, Nor could there be any great need for adorning, The Night being almost at odds with the Morning. Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon is high, the glen, And one fond voice alone is heard-oh! Night is lovely then! But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of pain, But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in vain,— When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light, Where all we love is fading fast-how terrible is Night!! 524 More terrible yet, If you happen to get By an old woman's bedside, who, all her life long, facile It fill'd him with dread, And made all his hair stand on end on his head,— Seem'd as though 't had gone mad, Each lock, as by action galvanic, uprears That so'fill'd him with dread,' We should never have known any more than the dead, A feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred,— One-half, or a third Of what passed as the Monk and the Patient conferred, And 'Life,' And he thought she said 'Wife,' And 'Money' that source of all evil and strife Then he plainly distinguish'd the words 'Gore,' and 'Gash,' Intermix'd with her moans, And her sighs, and her groans, Enough to have melted the hearts of the stones, 'Daughter, don't you despair!-WHAT'S BECOME OF THE *Effodiuntur Opes, Irritamenta Malo LILLY's Grammar. |