The clock strikes twelve,-it is dark midnight,-
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met;

The tables are set;

There is "punch," "cold without," "hot within," "heavy wet,"

Ale-glasses and jugs,

And rummers and mugs,

And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
Cold fowl and cigars,

Pickled onions in jars,

Welsh rabbits, and kidneys,―rare work for the jaws!—
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,-
All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"

The clock strikes One!
Supper is done,

And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions, every one!"
My Lord Tomnoddy

Is drinking gin-toddy,

And laughing at every thing, and every body.
The clock strikes Two!-and the clock strikes Three !-
"Who so merry, so merry as we ?"

Save Captain M'Fuze,

Who is taking a snooze,

While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

The clock strikes Four!

Round the debtor's door

Are gathered a couple of thousands or more;

As

many await

At the press-yard gate,

Till slowly its folding-doors open; and straight
The mob divides; and between their ranks

A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

The clock strikes Five!

The sheriffs arrive,

And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive;

But Sir Carnaby Jenks
Blinks and winks,

A candle burns down in the socket, and-hem !—
Lieutenant Tregooze

Is dreaming of Jews,

And acceptances of the bill-brokers' refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy;

And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.
Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seemed as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,-
All,-save the wretch condemned to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a sun

As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such scenes of misery!
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows tree!

And hark!-a sound comes big with fate,

The clock from St. Sepulcher's tower strikes-Eight!List to that low funeral bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!

And see!-from forth that opening door

They come-he steps the threshold o'er

Who never shall tread upon threshold more.-
God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see

That pale man's mute agony,

The glare of that wild, despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 't were scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,-not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-Enough, 'tis done!—
The bolt has fallen!-The spirit is gone--
For weal or for woe is known to but One!-
Oh! 't was a fearsome sight! Ah, me!
A deed to shudder at,-not to see.
Again that clock !-'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past ;-with its earliest chime

The cord is severed, the lifeless clay
By "dungeon villains" is borne away;
Nine!-'t was the last concluding stroke!
And then my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose ;
And they stared at each other, as much as to say,
"Hollo! Hollo!

Here's a rum go!

Why, captain!-my lord!-Here's the mischief to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!
What's to be done?

We've missed all the fun!

Why, they'll laugh at, and quiz us all over the town,
We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"

What was to be done ?-'t was perfectly plain
That they could not well hang the man over again ;-
What was to be done?-The man was dead!-
Nought could be done,-nought could be said;
So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Ex. CXLIX.-SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,—

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

THOMAS HOOD.

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt.”

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It 's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-workTill the brain begins to swim, Work-work-work,.

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh! men, with sisters dear!

Oh! men, with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you 're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,

Oh God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread,—and rags,-

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime!
Work-work-work,
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work!

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright—
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the Spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—–
With the sky above my head
And the grass beneath my

For only one sweet hour

To feel as I used to feel,

feet,

Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite, however brief!
No blesséd leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich!—
She sung this "Song of the Shirt."

Ex. CL.-THE AVENGING CHILDE.

LOCKHART.

HURRA! hurra! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe;
His horse is swift as sands that drift,―an Arab of the wild;