But the beggar man made a mumping face,
And knock'd at every gate:

It made me curse to hear how he whin'd,
So our fellowship turn'd to hate,

And I bade him walk the world by himself,

For I scorn'd so humble a mate!

So he turn'd right and I turn'd left,
As if we had never met;

And I chose a fair stone house for myself,
For the city was all to let ;

And for three brave holydays drank my
Of the choicest that I could get.

fill

And because my jerkin was coarse and worn,
I got me a properer vest;

It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold,
And a shining star at the breast!—

'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave

To see me so purely drest !—

But Joan was dead and under the mould,
And every buxom lass;

In vain I watch'd, at the window pane,
For a Christian soul to pass !

But sheep and kine wander'd up the street,
And browz'd on the new-come grass.-

When lo! I spied the old beggar man,
And lustily he did sing !—

His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak,
And a crown he had like a King;
So he stept right up before my gate
And danc'd me a saucy fling!

Heaven mend us all !-but, within my mind,
I had kill'd him then and there;

To see him lording so braggart-like
That was born to his beggar's fare;
And how he had stol'n the royal crown
His betters were meant to wear,

But God forbid that a thief should die
Without his share of the laws!
So I nimbly whipt my tackle out,
And soon tied up his claws,--

I was judge myself, and jury, and all,

And solemnly tried the cause.

But the beggar man would not plead, but cried

Like a babe without its corals,

For he knew how hard it is apt to go,

When the law and a thief have quarrels,—
There was not a Christian soul alive
To speak a word for his morals.

Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear,
And put on my work-day clothes;

I was tired of such a long Sunday life,—
And never was one of the sloths;

But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal,
And made many crooked mouths.

So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot,

And blinded him in his bags;

'Twas a weary job to heave him up,

For a doom'd man always lags;

But by ten of the clock he was off his legs

In the wind, and airing his rags!

So there he hung, and there I stood,
The LAST MAN left alive,

To have my own will of all the earth :
Quoth I, now I shall thrive!

But when was ever honey made
With one bee in a hive!

My conscience began to gnaw my heart,
Before the day was done,

For other men's lives had all gone out,
Like candles in the sun!-

But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last,

A thousand necks in one!

So I went and cut his body down

To bury it decentlie;

God send there were any good soul alive

To do the like by me!

But the wild dogs came with terrible speed,

And bay'd me up the tree!

My sight was like a drunkard's sight,
And my head began to swim,

To see their jaws all white with foam,
Like the ravenous ocean brim ;-
But when the wild dogs trotted away
Their jaws were bloody and grim!

Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord!

But the beggar man, where was he?

There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags

Below the gallows' tree !—

I know the Devil, when I am dead,

Will send his hounds for me!

I've buried my babies one by one,
And dug the deep hole for Joan,
And cover'd the faces of kith and kin,
And felt the old churchyard stone

Go cold to my heart, full many a time,
But I never felt so lone !

For the lion and Adam were company,
And the tiger him beguil'd;

But the simple kine are foes to my life,
And the household brutes are wild.
If the veriest cur would lick my hand,

I could love it like a child!

And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream, At night to make me madder,

And my wretched conscience within my breast, Is like a stinging adder:—

I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot,

And look at the rope and ladder !

For hanging looks sweet, but alas! in vain
My desperate fancy begs,-

I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up,
And drink it to the dregs,-

For there's not another man alive,

In the world, to pull my legs!

Oн a pistol, or a knife!

For I'm weary of my life,—

My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it ;
My estate is out at nurse,

And my heart is like my purse—

And all through-backing of the Favourite!

At dear O'Neil's first start,

I sported all my heart,—

Oh, Becher, he never marr'd a braver hit!
For he cross'd her in her race,

And made her lose her place,

And there was an end of that Favourite!

* The late favourite of the King's Theatre, who left the pas seul of life, for a perpetual Ball. Is not that her effigy now commonly borne about by the Italian image vendors-an ethereal form holding a wreath with both hands above her head--and her husband, in emblem, beneath her foot?