And "give their patrons satisfaction." So stern, so bony, and so gaunt; دو And "looks so well disease and want! Nor wants a wig to make him gray, For the great woes they struggle through, And, when you quit the booth to-night, (By permission of the Author.) KK WIT AND HUMOUR. LOOK AT THE CLOCK! REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. The Rev. Mr. Barham was born at Canterbury, 1789, and educated at Oxford. He was a minor canon of St. Paul's, and rector of St. Augustine and St. Faith's, London. Mr. Barham's mind literally overflowed with wit, and he never attempted to restrain it; but he tempered it with the learning and classical knowledge he brought to bear upon every subject that he touched. It has been truly said of him, "for originality of style and diction, for quaint illustration and the musical flow of his muse, his poetry is not surpassed by anything of the same kind in the English language." Mr. Barham contributed many papers to the "Edinburgh Review," "Blackwood," and "Bentley's Miscellany;" it was in the latter, chiefly, that the "Ingoldsby Legends" first appeared. He died 1845.] FYTTE I. "Look at the Clock!" quoth Winnifred Pryce, 66 You nasty warmint, look at the Clock! Is this the way, you Treat her who vowed to love and obey you?- Me in a fright! Staggering home as it's just getting light! Winnifred Pryce was tidy and clean, Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoats green, Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket holes; A face like a ferret To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young, Now David Pryce Had one darling vice; Remarkably partial to anything nice, If it was not too stale I really believe he'd have emptied a pail; They talk of their Ales; To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W. That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;" Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon! What have we with day to do? Mrs. Winnifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!" And then came that knock, And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!" That self-same clock had long been a bone At its case, of With an ominous squint an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout." That horrid word "Spout" No sooner was out Than Winnifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, Spout " herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering willin, Your wife-ay, a dozen of wives-for a shilling! (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her smock,) Mrs. Pryce's tongue rang long and ran fast; So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Direct at her head, It knock'd off her hat; Her case perhaps was not much mended by that: Or her tumble produced a concussion of brain, When sobered by fright, to assist her he ran, Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's good sense: Any presumption of Malice Prepense.' The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He "deplored"-he was "apt to be rather too quick;" But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant :--all The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!" Then he calls Mr. Jones, And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones;" While Mr. Ap Morgan and Mr. Ap Rhys Declare the Deceased Had styled him " a Beast," And swear they had witnessed with grief and surprise, The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy, The following verdict, "We find, Sarve her right!" Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winnifred Pryce being dead, Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain; its name you'll excuse me from telling, And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far, Is pronounceable ;-then Come two Ls, and two Hs, two Fs, and an N; Well-the moon shone bright When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, With that sort of stride A man puts out when walking in search of a bride. He began to perspire, Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest, He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; A walk all up hill is apt, we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopped and look'd down on the valley below. O'er fell and o'er fen, O'er mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then |