And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, "Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X !".

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubbed the
delf,

Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho I went to Mr. Cobb

I changed a shilling-(which in town the people call "a
Bob")--

It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child-
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild !"

When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair

I could not see iny little friend--because he was not there!
I peeped beneath the table-cloth-beneath the sofa, too--
I said, "You little vulgar boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons-I looked, but could not see
The little fiddle-patterned ones I use when I'm at tea;
-I could not see my sugar-tongs-my silver watch-oh, dear!
I know 't was on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Mackintosh!--it was not to be seen!
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimmed and lined
with green;

My carpet-bag-my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,

My roast potatoes!-all are gone!--and so 's that vulgar boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?-ain't this a pretty go?

-That horrid little vulgar boy whom I brought here to-night, -He 's stolen my things and run away!!"-Says she, "And sarve you right!!"

Next morning I was up betimes I sent the crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the crier cried "O yes!" the people cried, "O
no!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor man a-walking up and down;
I told my tale-he seemed to think I'd not been treated well,
And called me, "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I can
not tell.

That sailor-man, he said he 'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of something—'t was a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"-dear me; what could he

mean?

With a "carpet swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"

-It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer-And then he hitched his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their

use,

-It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He'd seen that little vulgar boy, that morning swim away
In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed, somewheres" about
the Nore.

66

A landsman said, "I twig the chap-he's been upon the

Mill

And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping

Bill!"

He said "he'd done me very brown," and "nicely stowed the swag."

--or else a carpet-bag.

-That's French, I fancy, for a hat-

I went and told the constable my property to track;
He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back ?”
I answered, "To be sure I do!-it's what I come about."
He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you
are out ?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the boy who'd "done me brown."

His lordship very kindly said he 'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ ;

But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar boy!

MORAL.

Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my grandma'

tell,

"BE WARNED IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL !"

Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fixed abode,

Tell lies. use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blowed!"

Don't take too much of double X !-and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout!

And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!

Ex. LXV.-THE MAID OF THE INN.

SOUTHEY.

WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, yet her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ;
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor withered bosom, half-bare; and her cheek
Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary, the maniac, has been;

The traveler remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the maid of the inn.

Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,
As she welcomed them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night,

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved; and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew her, would pity poor Mary, and say
That she was too good for his wife.

'T was in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and doors;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burned bright,
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listened to hear the wind roar.

""Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night for the abbey," his comrade replied,
"Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried
Who should wander the ruins about.

"I, myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear;
For this wind might awaken the dead."

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,

"That Mary would venture there now." "Then wager and lose," with a sneer, he replied, "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint, if she saw a white cow."

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" His companion exclaimed with a smile; "I shall win; for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the alder that grows in the aisle."

With fearless good humor did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;

The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And, as hollowly howling, it swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.

O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid,
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight;

Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gathered the bough,-

When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear,-
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew; the hoarse ivy shook over her head ;-
She listened; naught else could she hear.

The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins-distinctly—the tread
Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there;

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them—a corpse did they bear!

Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by,-

It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled !—
She fell-and expected to die!

"Curse the hat!" he exclaims; "Nay, come on, and first hide The dead body," his comrade replies ;