And "give their patrons satisfaction."
And children point and wonder how
That stooping man with face so long,
With husky cough and dragging gait,
"Be chap as sang that funny song !
And that same meagre figure there,
So worn, so broken, and so mild,
Could be the haughty tyrant king
Who slew his wife and cursed his child!
Ah! little fleeting fame ᎩᎾ seek!
And little fleeting means of life!
Too little for the hard-worked man,
Too little for the ailing wife.
No wonder if the tyrant seems

So stern, so bony, and so gaunt;
No wonder if his captive acts

دو

And "looks so well disease and want!
The ghost is halfway to his grave,
And weakness gives his measured walk,
And poor Ophelia's face is pale
Without the adventitious chalk.
The testy dotard of the stage,
The " heavy father," as they say,
Is heavy only in his heart,

Nor wants a wig to make him gray,
And he, whom vacant hinds applaud
And roar at ere his jest is sped,
May have his private tragedy,
And scarce a place to lay his head.
Ah! pardon all their little faults

For the great woes they struggle through,

And, when you quit the booth to-night,
Pray God to bless the strollers too!

(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,
As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,
Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,

66

You nasty warmint, look at the Clock!

Is this the way, you
Wretch, every day you

Treat her who vowed to love and obey you?-
Out all night!

Me in a fright!

Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute!-you insensible block!—
Look at the Clock!-Do!-Look at the Clock!"

Winnifred Pryce was tidy and clean,

Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoats green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;

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
Betoken'd her spirit:

To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce

Had one darling vice;

Remarkably partial to anything nice,
Nought that was good came to him amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss!
Especially ale-

If it was not too stale

I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;
Not that in Wales

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,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots
The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots,
With a couple more soakers,
Thoroughbred smokers,

Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;
And long after day had drawn to a close,

And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,

They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;"
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,

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!"
At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,
Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door:

And then came that knock,

And the sensible shock

David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan,
And often, among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
Pryce would drop a cool hint,

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,
I know you'd be killing

Your wife-ay, a dozen of wives-for a shilling!
You may do what you please,
You may sell my chemise,

(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her smock,)
But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!"

Mrs. Pryce's tongue rang long and ran fast;
But patience is apt to wear out at last,
And David Pryce in temper was quick,

So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then wasn't very convenient.
So he threw it instead,

Direct at her head,

It knock'd off her hat;
Down she fell flat;

Her case perhaps was not much mended by that:
But whatever it was-whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,

Or her tumble produced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain-but this I can,

When sobered by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winnifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!
The fearful catastrophe

Named in

my last strophe

As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality
Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality,
And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.
Mr. Pryce, to commence
His "ingenious defence,"

Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's good sense:
"The world he must defy
Ever to justify

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,
Who depones to her tones,

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 allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.
The jury, in fine, having sat on the body

The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy,
Return'd about half-past eleven at night

The following verdict, "We find, Sarve her right!"

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winnifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely and moped; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling,

From the vale proudly swelling,

Rose a mountain; its name you'll excuse me from telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;

And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far,
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.
Its first syllable, "PEN,"

Is pronounceable ;-then

Come two Ls, and two Hs, two Fs, and an N;
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "PEN.”

Well-the moon shone bright
Upon "PEN" that night,

When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
Was scaling its side

With that sort of stride

A man puts out when walking in search of a bride.
Mounting higher and higher,

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
All the patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught