Chapter XXI

For when his regiment went to fight
At Saragossa town,
A Frenchman thought he look’d too tall
And so he cut him down!

THE WIDOW.

One widow at a grave will sob
A little while, and weep, and sigh!
If two should meet on such a job,
They’ll have a gossip by and by.
If three should come together--why,
Three widows are good company!
If four should meet by any chance,
Four is a number very nice,
To have a rubber in a trice--
But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C---- (why should I not
Declare her name!--her name was Cross)
Was one of those the “common lot”
Had left to weep “no common loss;”--
For she had lately buried then
A man, the “very best of men,”
A lingering truth, discover’d first
Whenever men “are at the worst.”
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep--
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did _not_ weep:
In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect “veil of tears.”
Though ever since she lost “her prop
And stay,”--alas! he wouldn’t stay--
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop,
From Passion’s eye, as Moore would say;
Because, when Mister Cross took flight,
It looked so very like a spite--
He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if “to wet a widow’s cheek,”
And soothe his grave with sorrow’s gravy,--
’Twas nothing but a make-believe,
She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And yet she often seem’d to raise
A cambric kerchief to her eye--
A _duster_ ought to be the phrase,
Its work was all so very dry.
The springs were lock’d that ought to flow--
In England or in widow-woman--
As those that watch the weather know,
Such “backward Springs” are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains,
To call upon the “dear remains,”--
Remains that could not tell a jot,
Whether she ever wept or not,
Or how his relict took her losses?
Oh! my black ink turns red for shame--
But still the naughty world must learn,
There was a little German came
To shed a tear in “Anna’s Urn,”
At the next grave to Mr. Cross’s!
For there an angel’s virtues slept,
“Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!”
But still her painted face he kept,
“Encompass’d in an angel’s frame.”

He look’d quite sad and quite deprived,
His head was nothing but a hat-band;
He look’d so lone, and so _un_wived,
That soon the Widow Cross contrived
To fall in love with even _that_ band;
And all at once the brackish juices
Came gushing out thro’ sorrow’s sluices--
Tear after tear too fast to wipe,
Tho’ sopp’d, and sopp’d, and sopp’d again--
No leak in sorrow’s private pipe,
But like a bursting on the main!
Whoe’er has watch’d the window-pane--
I mean to say in showery weather--
Has seen two little drops of rain,
Like lovers very fond and fain,
At one another creeping, creeping,
Till both, at last, embrace together:
So far’d it with that couple’s weeping!
The principle was quite as active--
Tear unto tear,
Kept drawing near,
Their very blacks became attractive.
To cut a shortish story shorter,
Conceive them sitting tête à tête--
Two cups,--hot muffins on a plate,--
With “Anna’s Urn” to hold hot water!

The brazen vessel for a while,
Had lectured in an easy song,
Like Abernethy--on the bile--
The scalded herb was getting strong;
All seem’d as smooth as smooth could be,
To have a cosey cup of tea;
Alas! how often human sippers
With unexpected bitters meet,
And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,
Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told,
Had seen three husbands to the mould;
She never sought an Indian pyre,
Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves,
But with a proper sense of fire,
Put up, instead, with “three removes:”
Thus, when with any tender words
Or tears she spoke about her loss,
The dear departed, Mr. Cross,
Came in for nothing but his thirds;
For, as all widows love too well,
She liked upon the list to dwell,
And oft ripp’d up the old disasters--
She might, indeed, have been supposed
A great _ship_ owner, for she prosed
Eternally of her Three Masters!

Thus, foolish woman! while she nursed
Her mild souchong, she talk’d and reckon’d
What had been left her by her first,
And by her last, and by her second.
Alas! not all her annual rents
Could then entice the little German,--
Not Mr. Cross’s Three Per Cents,
Or Consols, ever make him _her_ man;
He liked her cash, he liked her houses,
But not that dismal bit of land
She always settled on her spouses.
So taking up his hat and band,
Said he “You’ll think my conduct odd--
But here my hopes no more may linger;
I thought you had a wedding-finger,
But oh!--it is a curtain-rod!”

“DON’T YOU SMELL FIRE?”

I.

Run!--run for St. Clement’s engine!
For the Pawnbroker’s all in a blaze,
And the pledges are frying and singing--
Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!
Now where can the turncock be drinking?
Was there ever so thirsty an elf?--
But he still may tope on, for I’m thinking
That the plugs are as dry as himself.

II.

The engines!--I hear them come rumbling;
There’s the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!
What a row there will be, and a grumbling
When the water don’t start for a run!
See! there they come racing and tearing,
All the street with loud voices is fill’d;
Oh! its only the firemen a-swearing
At a man they’ve run over and kill’d!

III.

How sweetly the sparks fly away now,
And twinkle like stars in the sky;
It’s a wonder the engines don’t play now,
But I never saw water so shy!
Why there isn’t enough for a snipe,
And the fire is fiercer, alas!
Oh! instead of the New River pipe,
They have gone--that they have--to the gas!

IV.

Only look at the poor little P----’s
On the roof--is there anything sadder?
My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,
And they won’t be an hour with the ladder!
But if any one’s hot in their feet,
And in very great haste to be saved,
Here’s a nice easy bit in the street,
That M‘Adam has lately unpaved!

V.

There is some one--I see a dark shape
At that window, the hottest of all,--
My good woman, why don’t you escape?
Never think of your bonnet and shawl:
If your dress isn’t perfect, what is it
For once in a way to your hurt?
When your husband is paying a visit
There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!

VI.

Only see how she throws out her _chaney!_
Her basons, and teapots, and all
The most brittle of _her_ goods--or any,
But they all break in breaking their fall:
Such things are not surely the best
From a two-story window to throw--
She might save a good iron-bound chest,
For there’s plenty of people below!