The Spook Ballads

WROUGHT a specs, with magic rim, of strange, and subtle parts,

For by those optics made by him, he saw men's inmost hearts,

The grim old sage, 'twas of his fads, to wear those wrysome lamps,

For evermore, and find the lads, the worldly-wise, and scamps.

He saw the plottings, and the strife, he saw the woes, and tears!

The murky glooms of unknown life, the spring of hopes, and fears,

The sham of face, the sham of name, the sham of heart within;

He sifted all, and wrote for fame, record of unknown sin.

"Ho, ho!" cried he at length, "I wis, the dross of men is such,

'Tis surfeit, thus to seek for this, it palls me overmuch;

I'll seek a gem of human hearts, and find it, if I can,"—

He sought at home, and foreign parts, to meet an honest man.

In that pursuit, a year and seven, did on his labours fall;

"Heigho!" cried he, "outside of Heaven, they're masks, and faces all!

They're masks, and faces all!" quoth he, and from the world he went

To bide alone, beside the sea, in selfish self-content.

Now, this old sage, thro' many a year, had never thought of self,

Before he used the specs: in fear, his mirror, on a shelf,

He set, with face down evermore, lest by a glance, that he

Should pry into the evil store, of his own villainie.

But, fishing in a pool one day, the sage forgot his specs—

To take it from his nose,—and hey! a horror, to perplex

His soul with fear, was under him; for, in the glassy wave,

He saw his heart reflected grim! he saw his new-made grave:

He saw, that he himself was worst, of all that he had seen;

By sight of conscience, he was curst, the evil deeds, had been

Dry rotting in his blackened heart, the place he feared to search,

And self-reproach, did send a dart, that knocked him off his perch;

The rod and line, fell from his hand, the specs fell off his nose:

And he was drowned, in sight of land, in all his Sunday clothes.

YE CURIOUS TAYLE OF YE UNCIVIL FIGHT OF YE CIVIL WARRE

DDZOOKS! ye civil war was rough,

'Twixt cavalier, and roundhead tough,

Thence, for thy pale

Of cheek, and wail,

Now hearken, to ye curious tayle,

Ah! me.

HEY met, to meet, was cause for strife

And hunger, for each other's life!

Alack ah! me,

That such should be,

Where posies, pied beneath ye tree,

Ah! me.

N derring do, they straightway play,

And cut, and slash, ye time away;

Ye evil grue,

This derring do,

When earth, was wide enough for two,

Ah! me.

O! one at length, in bonds did pine,

Ye squirrel came, and nipped ye twine;

Reproof of spite,

From woodland mite,

For truce to ye fanatic fight,

Ah! me.

UT hey alack! again they rise,

And swish their blades, in murderous wise;

'Tis pain, to sing,

Of sword, in swing,

Where butterflies, did spread ye wing,

Ah! me.

T length, one trussed his foe, but lo!

A bat, did cut ye cord, ho! ho!

Ye moral flat,

Of gracious bat,

That men, should drop ye hate, like that—

Ah! me.

E wrath of wrong, is still to do,

Ye loathsome vengeance, starts anew,

O pity! wrong,

Should wreak so strong,

Where birds, did pipe ye evensong,

Ah! me.

E strife waxed hot, in air they spring,—

No fiercer fray, did minstrel sing,—

But why spill here,

Ye tender tear,

For Roundhead, or ye Cavalier?

Ah! me.

HEY scuffle, till each wig, and nose,

Fell off, and nature's truths, disclose,

Ye wild surprise,

Doth swiftly rise,

Ye brows, above ye startled eyes!

Ah! me.

OR lo! they recognise each one,

Each was his father's other son!

Ye clasping spree,

Of filial glee,

Is here depicted, as you see,

Ah! me.

LEATHER VERSUS LAW

AN instance of calculating foresight and prudence is illustrated in the following verses. If men would rely on the mutual study of a spirit of equity, and enter more confidentially into the claims of each, what beautiful pictures, of repentant resignation to a just castigation, would be afforded, by certain of those who misunderstand the rights of property. An excellent lesson of this kind, is taught by the experience of the first tramp. He parted from the Farmer, with comprehensive impressions, of the farmer's energy, and application to business, a fact, which he took the earliest opportunity, of advertising in the nearest hospital. Thro' the second case, also runs a beautiful lesson, to the farmer, it may not have happed so well, as to the tramp, but the record serves to show, that an action at law, should only result, as a mutual alternative, agreeable to both parties; thereby the air of the Law Courts, would be considerably purified, of the stuffiness, that oppresses the impetuous litigant.

AID one tramp, to the second tramp,

"The dark is comin' on the sun,

Do you prowl in to this 'ere barn.

And I'll dodge on to yonder one.

"I allus likes to sleep alone,

Besides you see, it runs' em tight,

The Varmers, when a pair o' tramps

Turns up, so Bill, I'll say good night."

The chanticleer, did early trump,

A tonic note, upon his pipe,

And woke the husbandman, to view,

How thick, and tall, his crops, and ripe.

And in his barn, he found a tramp!

"Ho, trespasser, what shall I do?"

He cried "Shall I evict by Law?

Or take the Law myself, on you?"

"Well Varmer, I have had with cranks,

Of legal jaw, too much," said he,

"So with your leave, I'd rather you,

Would take the law, yourself on me."

"Ha! that's exactly to my form!"

He gripped him by the neck, "Here goes!

Whew! now take this! and that, and this,"

With that, he gave him all his toes.

He kicked him, thro' the barn door,

He rolled him, in the grunty stye,

And up, and down, and round the yard,

And then, he bunged him in the eye!

He ducked him, in the horses' pond,

He slung him, right across a load

Of dung, he kicked him thro' the gate,

And wiped him up and down the road!

He kicked him black! He kicked him blue!

He kicked him green! and red and white!

He kicked him, till he could not kick,

For then the tramp was out of sight!

That tramp did never more appear

Around that neighbourhood, he passed

Away, just like a whiff of smoke,

That scuds before the autumn blast!

A second husbandman that morn,

Was quick astir, he fancied he

Did hear, a wailing in his barn,

A moan, as of the wild banshee!

He thought to catch the female sprite,

For truth, he was a festive scamp,

But got a sort of snub, when he,

Discovered but a snoring tramp!

The sleep was deep, for with his foot,

He had to supplement the blow,

Or box, he gave him on his ear,

And shouted in that ear "Hello!

You'll pardon me, my friend, but 'ere,

I thought, this barn belonged to me!

Now shall I chuck you out myself,

Or seek injunct, from Chancerie?"

The startled tramp, did rub his nose,

And stared that farmer, in the eye,

Then stretched himself, and spoke as he,

Would fain enjoy a longer lie.

"Well Boss, I've been so often chucked,

That it would be relief to stay,

And in the Court of Chancerie,

Arrange it in a friendly way."

They took the case to chancerie,

And argued it, from every point,

But in the end, they always found,

The arguments, were out of joint!

The prosecuting counsel, cranked

The cogs of all the tramp's defence,

And also in his turn, was spanked,

And thus, they cribbed the farmer's pence.

They argued it, on every side,

With judge's whim, and lawyer's yarn.

But still the tramp, remains at home,

His home, is in the farmer's barn!

The case, has not been ended yet,

It crops up now, and often then,

You cannot tell, when it may crop,

It might crop up, next week again,

But when that tramp, will have to go,

I cannot tell it, nor can he,

The farmer cannot, nor can they;

The lawyers of the Chancerie.

Thus tho' we may not take the law,

Into our hands, it's often meet,

To serve extemporaneous writ

By sharp eviction, from the feet.

HEADS AND TAILS

WAS in the Daisy Bell,

I met him, quite a swell,

His style, was very taking, and off hand,

"No thanks!" said he "I think

We'll toss up, for the drink,

I'm independent, as there's in the land!"

I tossed him, and I lost,

Said he "That was a frost,

I'll toss you now, a consolation toss,

I'll toss you, for a bob"

I lost! "I wouldn't rob"

Said he "I wouldn't see you, at a loss.

"By gum! here's what I'll do,

I'll toss you now for two,

It's double now, or quits, that we will try,"

Again I lost; 'twas queer,

Again, said he, "look here,

Your fortune, will be lifting by and by."

I thought that it must turn,

But soon I had to learn,

His way was rather taking, and off hand,

A goodly sum was due,

Said he "I've made off you,

Six quid, and sixteen tanners, you will stand,"

"Your double coin," said I,

"Has just now caught my eye,

And the dust, from your jacket, I must whack!"

His jacket, with malacca, I did crack!

His hide, was very taking, at the back!

THE COLONEL AND THE COOK

COLONEL I could love you,

With faithful heart," said she;

"But you are far too noble—

Too grand a man for me,

For you're Commander of the Horse,

And hardly could be higher,

While, I am only just a Cook,

Around the kitchen fire."

Said she "I could not marry you,

For you are all so grand;

I'd be a most unhappy wife—

The saddest in the land."

Said he, "I did not ask you;

But when I'm far from you,

And on the field of battle,

I'll see what I can do."

Said he, "I never thought of it,

And only now, I see—

Perhaps you are the woman,

Would suit to wed with me,

And that is just the cause of them—

The words, I said to you—

When on the field of battle,

I'll see what I can do."

The town, was all in tumult

Of women's wail alack!

For many a gallant soldier,

Would never more come back,

And even he (the Colonel)

Might fall—the first or last;

And that's the chiefest reason,

That Cook was weeping fast.

And tho' it was not proper,

To see the Colonel, look

With visage of dejection,

Upon a humble cook,

Yet nature won't be cheated,

Despite of high degree.

"Adieu; I'll come back worthy,

My love, to wed with thee."

And that is how they parted,

And those, the words he said:

And oft, when she was cooking,

It came into her head,

The promise he had uttered,

Of sweetest memory—

"Adieu; I'll come back worthy,

My love, to wed with thee."

She took a thought one morning,

And bought a copy-book;

Said she, I'll study pothooks,

They're suited for a cook.

I'll write his name, in roundhand,

A letter, I will send,

With the words "no more at present"—

My pet name, at the end.

She wrote his name, in roundhand,

A letter, she did send,

With "No more now at present,"

Her pet name, at the end.

But it never, never reached him,

And he did languish yet,

For the Cook, at home in Erin

He never could forget.

But lo! a taste for learning,

Is like a taste for drink,

While working on the pothooks,

She then began to think.

And thought, is like a snowball,

That gathers every turn;

She studied read-'em-easys,

While joints began to burn.

She studied, night and morning,

At languages, and paint,

At poetry, and musty prose,

And legends, old, and quaint.

She wrote a three-vol. novel,

And got a fancy price,

Became a photo beauty;

"Oh, this," quoth she, "is nice!"

She then appeared in drama,

While posing there, with grace

Of gauze, and limelight glowing

Upon her lovely face;

A common soldier, shouted

From the Olympian rail—

"O 'evans!" its my 'Arriet,

And turning deadly pale.

He darted for the stage door,

Her carriage grand, was there,

She was about to enter,

With all the fuss, and flare,

Of mashers buzzing round her;

And plunging forth, said he—

"I'm wot was once a Colonel, who went across the sea.

"Of course you must remember,

The words, I said to you—

'When on the field of battle,

I'd see what I could do.'

I never make a promise,

But to my word, I stick.

The man, who breaks his promise,

Is but a broken brick."

I'm wot was once a Colonel,

And for your love, I strove,

To be reduced, into the ranks,

For sake of you, my love;

I ran away in battle, I several times got drunk,

Was challenged to a duel, and purposely took funk.

They whittled my commission, into a major's rank,

And still I acted badly, and several times I drank,

I managed to get nibbled, down to a sergeant then

I stole a pint of whiskey, was put amongst the men.

"I've been all over Europe,

A lookin' out for you,

I have eschewed my grammar,

To prove my 'eart, was true;

I've parted with my surname,

That all might well combine,

Which now, I'm Private Miggins, of the Seventy-seventh Line.

"I've got a vulgar accent,

And vulgar sayin's too.

I drink, from common pewter.

It's all along of you,

And generally, my manners,

Are much about the styles,

You'll find amongst the manners,

Of the people of St. Giles.

"But here, I say, look, listen!

You have not acted straight,

But made us yet the victims,

Of a lobsided fate;

While I've been levellin' downwards,

To suit with your degree,

You've been, and gone, and levelled up,

Contrarywise to me.

"You had not ought to take me,

So short as this, I say;

You've worked a mean advantage,

While I was far away.

But still, we'll go to-morrow,

And make our love complete."

"Get out!" she cried, and vanished,

In her brougham, down the street.

THE SPIRIT THAT HELD HIM DOWN

E was one of the middle age men I wot,

A troubadour bedight,

Who lost himself, in a lonely wood,

An exceptional sort of night,

For the moon, was only beginning to wax,

And the clouds, were muggy, and black,

And there wasn't much chance, of finding his way,

To the trail, of the beaten track.

But troubadours, were stout and strong,

Of tough, and stubborn, stuff,

And took the rough, with the sleek, and smooth,

The smooth, with the rusty rough,

So up thro' the drift, of the hummocky ruck,

Of the clouds, he searched for a star,

To serenade, with the thringumy-thrang,

Of the thrum, of his new guitar.

The glint of one, thro' a galloping cloud,

He caught, and he screwed his wire,

And gave a twist, to its patent head,

And toned the catgut higher.

Then flung the cape of his cloak aside,

And in an æsthetic strain,

He pitched his voice, to the concert key,

And twanged on the strings amain.

But having expressed himself in song,

With a quivering verse or two,

His favourite string gave out, with a bang,

And stopped his impromptu.

He muttered a satire upon that string,

And sat on a bank, close by,

When he heard the trip of a female foot,

And lisp of a female sigh!

She was one of the guardians, of the piece

Of ground, that was round him there,

An ariel spirit in azure blue,

And fluffs of auburn hair,

That framed a very attractive face,

Of cream, and strawberry pink,

And she greeted the troubadour bedight,

With a captivating wink!

"O troubadour, what brings you here,

So lone and sad?" said she,

Just throw your guitar across your back,

And wander away with me.

I'll show you the fairy dells, of mine,

All tricked around with sheen,

Of glittering gold, and sparkling gems,

With electric lights between.

"I'm a single woman, and never was once

In love, with a man, till this!"

And then she stooped to his quivering lip,

Imprinting a dainty kiss.

"Why don't you get up out of that?" she cried,

And make no longer stay.

But a spirit within, still held him down,

In a magical sort of way.

"O troubadour, you're a suitable man,

To live in the woods with me,

We'll dance to the charms of elphin song,

Down under the greenwood tree."

And she coaxed him again, with a dainty kiss,

"Oh, sweetheart, come, be gay!"

But a spirit within, still held him down,

In a magical sort of way.

"I hope, that you don't imagine," said she,

"That I am a frivolous flirt,

I'm the woman, that's new, the fashion to-day,

With rational trunks, for skirt,

I can ride, on a bicycle, made for two,

Or 'tec out the sins of town,"

But all he could do, was give her a grin,

From the spirit that held him down!

He'd have given the world, to get up out of that,

But a tantalising sprite,

Had taken possession of him, you see,

In the early part of the night.

The fact of it is, that he couldn't get up,

If she gave him a kingly crown,

And all he could do, was give her a grin,

From the spirit, that held him down!

Twas woe! to see an attractive maid,

So slurred, by a knightly bard,

A misery this, for her plaint of love,

To be grinned at, snubbed, and marred!

Yet ever again, did she give him a kiss,

And a lingering, coaxing smile,

But the spirit within, still held him down,

In a magical sort of style!

"O come get up out of that!" she cried,

And gave his collar a shake,

With a kick in the ribs, that bustled him up,

And startled him wide awake!

And her raiment shrunk to the belted blue,

Of a burly man, said he,

"Yer out very late, in a dress like that,

So track it along with me."

"Get up out of that," the constable cried,

"And don't make no delay,"

But the spirit within, still held him down,

In a magical sort of way.

The spirit within, still held him down,

But the constable bent his back,

And hooshed him up, and carried him off,

At once to the beaten track.

The troubadour, came into the dock

Next day, in a crowded court,

And the rig of his garb, to the modern herd,

Was a source of evil sport.

But the modern beak had no romance,

And the sum of a couple of crown,

He fined the unfortunate troubadour,

For the spirit that held him down!

HIS FUTURE STATE.

FOUND him, sitting on a seat,

With sad reflective mien,

A drowsing pathos, in his eye,

Tinged with a tint of green,

I sat him by "good friend" I said,

"Of pilgrims, the resort,

Is this a church?" "I wish it wor!"

Cried he, "It's Bow Street Court!"

And then again, I looked at him,

Once more, I spoke him kind,

"Thy far off gaze, doth indicate,

Some presence, on thy mind,

Some haunting thought, of grave import,

Connected with the fate,

Perchance, that thou, mayhap, may meet,

When in the future state.

O speak the burden of thy heart,

That I may note it down,"

"It be's I was a boozin', and

I'm fined a quid and crown,

My far off look, is for that fine,

To dodge the prison gate,

And warders' lock on fourteen days,

That quads my future state.

A FIGHT IN THE PHŒNIX PARK

MOST attractive lady, of middle class degree,

When in the Ranelagh Gardens, was thus addressed, as she

Beheld a man, she jilted, "Theresa Mary Jane,

You didn't think to see me back in town, so soon again;

It's most exasperating, that when my back I turn

You pace the Ranelagh Gardens, with cotton-ball O'Byrne."

The linen draper started, and with indignant shout,

Said he, "She loves me only, you ferule-fingered lout,

Your time you're only wasting, so take a thought, and spurn,

The idle hopes, that lure ye," said Mister Pat O'Byrne.

Just then up came a stranger, with bending courtesy,

He doffed his triple tilted, "Good-night, mam'selle," said he,

Then turning to O'Gorman, and then, to Pat O'Byrne,

"Ze manners of ze shentlemans, ze both of you should learn;

To wrangle round ze lady, I'm shames of you, by dam!

If ye don't know ze fencin' of ze duel, go, and cram,

Don't bring ze crowds around her, but mit ze mornin' lark,

Vash out in blood, ze quarrels all in ze Phœnix Park."

"I'm on," said Kit O'Gorman. "Begor, an' so am I,"

Said Pat O'Byrne. The lady, then gave a tender sigh,

She told them each, she loved him, and though her heart did bleed,

Expressed a wish, he'd combat on a small Arabian steed.

"The duel's getting prosy, invest it with a fling

Of tournamental glory, you'll find it's now the thing,

To gild, with knightly glamour, your daring feat of strife,

And he who kills the other, I'll be his wedded wife;

Till then I'm Queen of beauty," so spake that lady fair,

"I give you both a fortnight, that each may well prepare,

And then I'll send you chargers, on which to combat so"

(Her father dealt in horses), "now, sirs, good-night, and go."

The fix was fraught with danger, for each of those two men,

Existence is too precious, man can't be born again;

They ne'er had used a weapon, they never strode a horse,

It was extremely awkward, and couldn't well be worse.

So while O'Gorman practised with foil, and mask. O'Byrne,

Was in a circus riding, and then he took his turn,

Before a fencing-master, to guard, and thrust, and fool,

While Pat O'Gorman, cantered around a riding school.

At length the fencing-master, he says to Pat O'Byrne,

"You're perfect mit ze fencing, you've nodings more to learn."

The man who taught him riding, did compliment him too,

And Kit O'Gorman also had "nodings" more to do.

The fortnight was now over, the morning came at last,

The rising dawn, was ushered with snow, and biting blast,

As on the Fifteen Acres, all in the Phœnix Park,

The duellists were waiting the Arab steeds, when, hark!

They heard a distant braying, as 'twere a trump of brass,

'Twas followed by a donkey, and then a second ass,

Came guided by his halter, unto the fated spot,

Said Pat O'Byrne and O'Gorman, "O, powdhers, this is rot!"

But yet a queen of beauty was their's the prize to win.

"We better pause no longer, but instantly pitch in,"

Said Pat O'Byrne, and Gorman. They tossed for choice of ass,

And pick of blade, then wheeling, they faced upon the grass.

I was for Kit O'Gorman a second on that day,

To see the flashing rapiers, to hear the donkeys bray

Was sight and sound to think of, the sylvan haunts were rife

With echoes reverbrated from crash of deadly strife;

Up went each donkey backwards, while scintillating wales

Of flashing steels, were echoed, by lashing of their tails,

For lo! the fight was doubled, the skittish donkeys sought,

To variegate the contest, and capered round, and fought;

They gave no chance. The foemen, with awkward clink of steels,

Struck now and then, while skew-ways the donkeys fought with heels,—

'Twas six o'clock commencing, and now, the strokes of ten,

Were sounding from the city, and still these mounted men,

Had not received abrasion, a cut, a prod, or crack,

When both were somersaulted, from off each asses' back;

The weapons went in splinters, as on the frosty grass,

Each foeman sprawled a moment, and loudly cursed his ass.

The assmen, quickly bounded unto their feet again,

And watched the seconds, chasing the donkeys round the plain;

And when at length, we caught them, and brought them back once more,

With fits of indignation, the baffled foemen swore;

"Bad scran to it!" said Gorman, "O'Musha, yis bad scran"

Cried Pat O'Byrne, "It's not a fight, for any dacent man,

Four mortial hours we've struggled—an' I'm all in a sweat!"

Said Gorman "Pon me sowl, I got no chance to kill ye yet!"

"The fight has been protracted, and divil a thing is done,

I vote we go and tell her", said O'Byrne, "that it's no fun,

To fight, as we've been fighting. Tib's Eve might come, and go,

We'd still be found here fooling her donkeys thro' the snow."

They felt a queer foreboding of something, going down

Parkgate-street, on that morning, till journeyed back to town;

They sought the girl, to tell her the fix that they were in,

When a larky-looking servant in the hall, began to grin.

"She's not at home at present, but breakfast sure is laid,

She's gone off to be married," outspoke the sneering maid;

"Le Beau, the fencin'-master is now the blissful man;

You'll see them soon, they're comin' in a satin-lined sedan."

"O, blur-an-owns!" said Gorman, "O tear o'war," said Byrne,

MacHugh, the other second, and I got quite a turn!

The man, who heard them quarrel, in Ranelagh-walk that night,

Was Le Beau, the man who sent them to Phœnix Park to fight.

He taught them both in fencing, and yet they did not know,

That each, was being instructed by his rival, Mons. Le Beau.

They tied her pair of donkeys, unto her garden pier,

When from the topmost window, that servant shouted "Here,

A note she left to give you, for both of you to learn."

'Twas written: "Kit O'Gorman, and Mister Pat O'Byrne,

I've sent a couple of donkeys, I thought that they might teach

What fools you are, for fighting, for what's beyond your reach,

But, silly as my donkeys, if both of you remain,

Remorse for death, will follow,

I'm yours, Theresa Jane."

We sought a Pub, and pondered, and drank, and sadly swore,

We would not be connected, with duels evermore,

I drank of stout, O'Gorman, and Byrne, of harder stuff,

They swore of duel fooling, they both had quite enough,—

Now, here's the bunch of fives, boys, there is no better rod

To 'venge our wounded honour, than the weapons made by God!

THE ABDICATED CROWN.

WAS jolly, round, and fat,

And with a bright top hat,

A chain beneath his burly bosom set,

In good old fashioned way,

Said he to me, "I say

Old boy, I have a thing that's to be met,

A pressing little debt,

The dunner has me set,

My pocket is unfurnished, to be let!

Five bob is all I ask,"

I 'sponded to the task,

That abdicated crown is debit yet!

TEARS-IN-LAW

FOUND him wet with tears,

'Tis woe! to see a strong man thus,

"O Reginald Fitz Alpine Smyke,

Why, wherefore, whence, this fuss?

O is she dead, thy wife? for that,

Alone can justify,

A bearded man to sob, and spring

The sentimental eye."

He raised his agonised brows,

With tears, all steaming hot,

"Ah woe!" cried he, "you think my wife

Is gone, alas! she's not,

This anniversary seven years,

My mother-in-law pegged out,

I never pass the day, without

A lamentating shout,

Her wealth is settled on my wife,

And thus for some I bid,

With wails of woe, I take on so,—

For every filial tear-in-law,

She stands a shining quid!"

I left him weeping up the stairs,

I met his wife below,

"I'll call," said I "another day,

Your husband takes on so,"

"And so he may take on," she said,

"His crocodiles may fall,

'Twill drain some water from his brain,

And do him good, that's all,

To-day in the domestic stocks,

He'll find a sudden fall!"

Alas! for poor Fitz Alpine Smyke,

His confidence was meant

For me alone, but she was there,

In slippers, on the scent!

Then came an action for divorce,

With all its quips, and cranks,

And nisi was the laws decree

That dropped him to the ranks,

And then he sought for many cribs,

The cribs he did not suit,

But he could well dissimulate,

So he became a mute,

His wife took the hymeneal bond

Again, and then she died,

And hired mutes with sorry mien,

Were by her coffin's side.

But when the funeral was o'er,

The widower he went

And greeted one of those—the mutes—

With feeling compliment,

He lightly pinched him by the crape

"O Mister Mute, I say,

I wish I could have wept the tears,

That you have dropped to-day!"

"Ah! me alack!" the mute exclaimed,

"My sorrow was sincere,

And were I not the ass I am,

We wouldn't both be here;

For I am he, Fitz Alpine Smyke,

Thro' tears, I let her slip,

And now by tears, I eke it out

In salary and tip."

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