The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 103

You're so like my Sister Sally, Both in valk and face and size; Miss, that--dang my old lee scuppers, It brings tears into my hyes!

I'm a mate on board a wessel, I'm a sailor bold and true; Shiver up my poor old timbers, Let me be a mate for you!

What's your name, my beauty, tell me?

And she faintly hansers, "Lore, Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, And I live at tventy-four."

Hofttimes came this British seaman, This deluded gal to meet: And at tventy-four was welcome, Tventy-four in Guilford Street

And Eliza told her Master (Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him (Vich vas all his hartful plan), And she told how Charley Thompson Reely was a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in Many years of union sweet, Vith a gent she met promiskous, Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them, And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin.

Hand the clergyman jine their ands.

And he ast about the lodgers (Vich her master let some rooms), likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson Came on Sundy veek to see her, And he sent Eliza Davis Hout to vetch a pint of beer.

Hand while poor Eliza vent to Fetch the beer, devoid of sin, This etrocious Charley Thompson Let his wile accomplish him.

To the lodgers, their apartments, This abandingd female goes, Prigs their shirts and umberellas: Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, Lest his wictim should escape, Hocust her vith rum and vater, Like a fiend in huming shape.

But a hi was fixt upon 'em Vich these raskles little sore; Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden, Just afore he vent to sup; And on looking up he sor the Lodger's vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled; Something's going wrong, he said; And he caught the vicked voman Underneath the lodger's bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman, Vich vas pa.s.sing on his beat, Like a true and galliant feller, Hup and down in Guildford Street.

And that Pleaseman, able-bodied, Took this voman to the cell; To the cell vere she was quodded, In the Close of Clerkenwell.

And though vicked Charley Thompson Boulted like a miscrant base, Presently another Pleaseman Took him to the self-same place.

And this precious pair of raskles Tuesday last came up for doom; By the beak they was committed, Vich his name was Mr. Combe.

Has for poor Eliza Davia, Simple gurl of tventy-four, She, I ope, will never listen In the streets to sailors moar.

But if she must ave a sweet-art (Vich most every gurl expex), Let her take a jolly Pleaseman, Vich is name peraps is--X.

LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.

[Footnote: The Birth of Prince Arthur]

BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE).

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

I paced upon my beat With steady step and slow, All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street; Ran'lagh, St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd Upon that fair May morn, Beold the booming cannings sound, A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State Then presnly I sor, They gallops to the Pallis gate, In carridges and for.

With anxious looks intent, Before the gate they stop, There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp.

Lord John he next elights; And who comes here in haste?

'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste.

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, Toward them steps with joy; Say the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us Is it a gal or a boy?"

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, "Your Grace, it is a PRINCE."

And at that nuss's bold rebuke, He did both laugh and wince.

He vews with pleasant look This pooty flower of May, Then says the wenerable Duke, "Egad, its my buthday."

By memory backards borne, Peraps his thoughts did stray To that old place where he was born Upon the first of May.

Peraps he did recal The ancient towers of Trim; And County Meath and Dangan Hall They did rewisit him.

I phansy of him so His good old thoughts employin; Fourscore years and one ago Beside the flowin' Boyne.

His father praps he sees, Most musicle of Lords, A playing maddrigles and glees Upon the Arpsicords.

Jest phansy this old Ero Upon his mother's knee!

Did ever lady in this land Ave greater sons than she?

And I shouldn be surprise While this was in his mind, If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind.

To Hapsly Ouse next day Drives up a Broosh and for, A gracious prince sits in that Shay (I mention him with Hor!)

They ring upon the bell, The Porter shows his ed, (He fought at Vaterloo as vell, And vears a veskit red.)

To see that carriage come The people round it press: "And is the galliant Duke at ome?"

"Your Royal Ighness, yes."

He stepps from out the Broosh And in the gate is gone, And X, although the people push, Says wery kind "Move hon."

The Royal Prince unto The galliant Duke did say, "Dear Duke, my little son and you Was born the self-same day.

"The lady of the land, My wife and Sovring dear, It is by her horgust command I wait upon you here.