To sit up so late is a scandal;
But ere you have ta'en off your clothes, Be sure that you put out that candle. Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.
My stars, in the air here's a knife!
I'm sure it cannot be a hum;
I'll catch at the handle, add's life,
And then I shall not cut my thumb.
I've got him!-no, at him again,
Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes:
This must be some blade of the brain :
Those witches are given to hoax.
I've one in my pocket, I know,
My wife left on purpose behind her;
She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,
The poor Caledonian grinder.
I see thee again! o'er thy middle
Large drops of red blood now are spill'd,
Just as much as to say diddle diddle,
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd.
It leads to his chamber I swear;
I tremble and quake every joint;
No dog at the scent of a hare
Ever yet made a cleverer point.
Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw
Give me blinkers to save me from starting;
The knife that I thought that I saw,
Was nought but my Eye, Betty Martin.
Now o'er this terrestrial hive
A life paralytic is spread,
For while the one half is alive,
The other is sleepy and dead.
King Duncan in grand majesty
Has got my state bed for a snooze,
I've lent him my slippers, so I
May certainly stand in his shoes.
Blow softly, ye murmuring gales,
Ye feet rouse no echo in walking,
For though a dead man tells no tales,
Dead walls are much given to talking.
This knife shall be in at the death,
I'll stick him, then off safely get.
Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,
For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet.
Hark, hark, 'tis the signal by goles,
It sounds like a funeral knell :
O hear it not, Duncan, it tolls
To call thee to heaven or hell.
Or if you to heaven won't fly,
But rather prefer Pluto's æther,
Only wait a few years till I die,
And we'll go to the Devil together.
Ri fol de rol, &c.
WHO has e'er been at Drury must needs know the
Stranger,
A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,
A husband suspicious, his wife acted Ranger,
She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon.
Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,
That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;
Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible,
My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in.
With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,
And pathos and bathos delightful to see;
And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum,
And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.
To keep up her dignity, no longer rich enough, Where was her plate? why 'twas laid on the shelf. Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen stuff,
Dressing the dinner instead of herself.
No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,
Now plain Mrs Haller, of servants the dread,
With a heart full of grief and a pan full of charcoal,
She lighted the company up to their bed.
Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon
Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,
Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon
Sat down and blubber'd just like a church spout.
One day on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,
Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that?
'Twas a child of the Count's, in whose service lived
Adelaide,
Soused in the river and squalled like a cat.
Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it
Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear,
No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,
Exposed as he was to the Count's son and heir.
Dear sir, quoth the Count, in reward of your valour,
To shew that my gratitude is not mere talk,
You shall eat a beef-steak which my cook, Mrs
Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.
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