And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,

Grew momently more and more,

And strokes as of a battering ram,

Did shake the strong church door.

The bellmen they, for very fear,
Could toll the bell no longer,
And still as louder grew the strokes,
Their fear it grew the stronger.

The monk and nun forgot their beads,
They fell on the ground in dismay,
There was not a single saint in heaven
To whom they did not pray.

And the choristers' song which late was so strong,

Falter'd with consternation,

For the church did rock as an earthquake shock Uplifted its foundation.

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast,
That shall one day wake the dead,

The strong church door could bear no more,
And the bolts and the bars they fled.

And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite,
And the choristers faintly sung,

And the priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd
And on all Saints in Heaven for aid

They call'd with trembling tongue.

And in He came with eyes of flame,

The Devil to fetch the dead,

And all the church with his presence glow'd
Like a fiery furnace red.

He laid his hand on the iron chains,

And like flax they moulder'd asunder, And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm, He burst with his voice of thunder.

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise,

And come with her master away,

And the cold sweat stood on the cold, cold corpse,

At the voice she was forced to obey.

She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,

Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear,

And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave

Never did mortal hear.

She follow'd the fiend to the church door,

There stood a black horse there ;

His breath was red like furnace smoke,
His eyes like a meteor's glare.

The fiend he flung her on the horse,

And he leapt up before,

And away like the lightning's speed they went,

And she was seen no more.

They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks

For four miles round they could hear,

And children at rest at their mothers' breast,

Started and screamed with fear.

1798.

THE SURGEON'S WARNING.

The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas.

Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come, are requested to take notice, that nothing here asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane.

THE Doctor whisper'd to the Nurse,
And the Surgeon knew what he said;
And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale,

And trembled in his sick-bed.