The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 102

One day this gentleman's groom This willain did spy out, A mounted on this oss, A ridin him about; "Get out of that there oss, you rogue,"

Speaks up the groom so stout.

The thief was cruel whex'd To find hisself so pinn'd; The oss began to whinny, The honest groom he grinn'd; And the raskle thief got off the oss And cut avay like vind.

And phansy with what joy The master did regard His dearly bluvd lost oss again Trot in the stable yard!

Who was this master good Of whomb I makes these rhymes?

His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire; And if _I_'d committed crimes, Good Lord! I wouldn't ave that mann Attack me in the TIMES!

Now, shortly after the groomb His master's oss did take up, There came a livery-man This gentleman to wake up; And he handed in a little bill, Which hanger'd Mr. Jacob.

For two pound seventeen This livery-man eplied, For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, Which the thief had took to ride.

"Do you see any think green in me?"

Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.

"Because a raskle chews My oss away to robb, And goes tick at your Mews For seven-and-fifty bobb, Shall _I_ be called to pay?--It is A iniquitious Jobb."

Thus Mr. Jacob cut The conwasation short; The livery-man went ome, Detummingd to ave sport, And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, Into the Pallis Court

Pore Jacob went to Court, A Counsel for to fix, And choose a barrister out of the four, An attorney of the six; And there he sor these men of Lor, And watched 'em at their tricks.

The dreadful day of trile In the Pallis Court did come; The lawyers said their say, The Judge looked wery glum, And then the British Jury cast Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um.

O, a weary day was that For Jacob to go through; The debt was two seventeen (Which he no mor owed than you).

And then there was the plaintives costs, Eleven pound six and two.

And then there was his own, Which the lawyers they did fix At the wery moderit figgar Of ten pound one and six.

Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, And all its bold ver-d.i.c.ks!

I can not settingly tell If Jacob swaw and cust, At aving for to pay this sumb, But I should think he must, And av drawm a cheque for L24 4s. 8d.

With most igstreme disgust.

O Pallis Court, you move My pitty most profound.

A most emusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt, With two-and-twenty pound.

Good sport it is to you, To grind the honest pore; To puy their just or unjust debts With eight hundred per cent, for Lor; Make haste and git your costes in, They will not last much mor!

Come down from that tribewn, Thou Shameless and Unjust; Thou Swindle, picking pockets in The name of Truth, august; Come down, thou h.o.a.ry Blasphemy, For die thou shalt and must.

And go it, Jacob Homnium, And ply your iron pen, And rise up Sir John Jervis, And shut me up that den; That sty for fattening lawyers in, On the bones of honest men.

PLEACEMAN X.

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?"

"That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?

But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.

She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.

I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.

Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.

And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea-- But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, yon young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.

PLEACEMAN X

THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

Galliant gents and lovely ladies, List a tail vich late befel, Vich I heard it, bein on duty, At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, Vere the little children sings: (Lord I likes to hear on Sundies Them there pooty little things!)

In this street there lived a housemaid, If you particklarly ask me where-- Vy, it was at four-and-tventy, Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square

Vich her name was Eliza Davis, And she went to fetch the beer: In the street she met a party As was quite surprized to see her.

Vich he vas a British Sailor, For to judge him by his look: Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies, Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes Of this hinnocent young gal-- Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom, You're so like my Sister Sal!