Ballads By William Makepeace Thackeray Part 31

Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a butcher dwelt; Mrs. Owers's foolish heart towards this erring dame did melt; (Not that she had erred as yet, crime was not developed in her), But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner-- G.o.d be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner!

Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life, Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife; He went out to b.a.l.l.s and pleasures, and never once, in ten months'

s.p.a.ce, Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant's case.

Pollock, C.B., charged the Jury; said the woman's guilt was clear: That was not the point, however, which the Jury came to hear; But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear, This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear--

Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving, year by year, Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her ear-- What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claim, By the loss of the affections of this guilty graceless dame?

Then the honest British Twelve, to each other turning round, Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound: And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound;-- "My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred pound."

So, G.o.d bless the Special Jury! pride and joy of English ground, And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound!

British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper: If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've a right to whop her.

Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her, You are welcome to neglect her: to the devil you may send her: You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned; And if after this you lose her,--why, you're paid two hundred pound.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

There's in the Vest a city pleasant To vich King Bladud gev his name, And in that city there's a Crescent Vere dwelt a n.o.ble knight of fame.

Although that galliant knight is oldish, Although Sir John as gray, gray air, Hage has not made his busum coldish, His Art still beats tewodds the Fair!

'Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid, Peraps fateagued with Bath's routines, To Paris towne his phootsteps bended In sutch of gayer folks and seans.

His and was free, his means was easy, A n.o.bler, finer gent than he Ne'er drove about the Shons-Eleesy, Or paced the Roo de Rivolee.

A brougham and pair Sir John prowided, In which abroad he loved to ride; But ar! he most of all enjyed it, When some one helse was sittin' inside!

That "some one helse" a lovely dame was Dear ladies you will heasy tell-- Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was, A n.o.ble t.i.tle, ard to spell.

This faymus Countess ad a daughter Of lovely form and tender art; A n.o.bleman in marridge sought her, By name the Baron of Saint Bart.

Their pashn touched the n.o.ble Sir John, It was so pewer and profound; Lady Grabrowski he did urge on With Hyming's wreeth their loves to crownd.

"O, come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent,"

Says kind Sir John, "and live with me; The living there's uncommon pleasant-- I'm sure you'll find the hair agree.

"O, come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski, And bring your charming girl," sezee; "The Barring here shall have the ouse-key, Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea.

"And when they've pa.s.sed an appy winter, Their opes and loves no more we'll bar; The marridge-vow they'll enter inter, And I at church will be their Par."

To Bath they went to Lansdowne Crescent, Where good Sir John he did provide No end of teas and b.a.l.l.s incessant, And hosses both to drive and ride.

He was so Ospitably busy, When Miss was late, he'd make so bold Upstairs to call out, "Missy, Missy, Come down, the coffy's getting cold!"

But O! 'tis sadd to think such bounties Should meet with such return as this; O Barring of Saint Bart, O Countess Grabrowski, and O cruel Miss!

He married you at Bath's fair Habby, Saint Bart he treated like a son-- And wasn't it uncommon shabby To do what you have went and done!

My trembling And amost refewses To write the charge which Sir John swore, Of which the Countess he ecuses, Her daughter and her son-in-lore.

My Mews quite blushes as she sings of The fatle charge which now I quote: He says Miss took his two best rings off, And p.a.w.ned 'em for a tenpun note.

"Is this the child of honest parince, To make away with folks' best things?

Is this, pray, like the wives of Barrins, To go and prig a gentleman's rings?"

Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on, And to rewenge his injured cause, He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton, Last Vensday veek as ever waws.

If guiltless, how she have been slandered!

If guilty, wengeance will not fail: Meanwhile the lady is remanded And gev three hundred pouns in bail.

JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS.

A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT.

One sees in Viteall Yard, Vere pleacemen do resort, A wenerable hinst.i.tute, 'Tis call'd the Pallis Court.

A gent as got his i on it, I think 'twill make some sport.

The natur of this Court My hindignation riles: A few fat legal spiders Here set & spin their viles; To rob the town theyr privlege is, In a hayrea of twelve miles.

The Judge of this year Court Is a mellitary beak, He knows no more of Lor Than praps he does of Greek, And prowides hisself a deputy Because he cannot speak.

Four counsel in this Court-- Misnamed of Justice--sits; These lawyers owes their places to Their money, not their wits; And there's six attornies under them, As here their living gits.

These lawyers, six and four, Was a livin at their ease, A sendin of their writs abowt, And droring in the fees, When their erose a cirkimstance As is like to make a breeze.

It now is some monce since, A gent both good and trew Possest an ansum oss vith vich He didn know what to do: Peraps he did not like the oss; Peraps he was a scru.

This gentleman his oss At Tattersall's did lodge; There came a wulgar oss-dealer, This gentleman's name did fodge, And took the oss from Tattersall's Wasn that a artful dodge?

One day this gentleman's groom This willain did spy out, A mounted on this oss A ridin him about; "Get out of that there oss, you rogue,"

Speaks up the groom so stout.

The thief was cruel whex'd To find himself so pinn'd; The oss began to whinny, The honest gloom he grinn'd; And the raskle thief got off the oss And cut avay like vind.

And phansy with what joy The master did regard His dearly bluvd lost oss again Trot in the stable yard!

Who was this master good Of whomb I makes these rhymes?

His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire; And if I'd committed crimes, Good Lord I wouldn't ave that mann Attack me in the Times!

Now shortly after the groomb His master's oss did take up, There came a livery-man This gentleman to wake up; And he handed in a little bill, Which hangered Mr. Jacob.