He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
On all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce ;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
Which went pit-a-pat

As he cried out "What's that?".

That very queer sound?—

Does it come from the ground ?

Or the air,—from above,--or below,—or around ?—
It is not like Talking,

It is not like Walking,

It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,

Or the tramp of a horse,—or the tread of a man,-
Or the hum of a crowd,-or the shouting of boys,--
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!

Not unlike a cart's,--but that can't be;-for when
Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men,"
With Old Nick for a wagoner, drive one up “PEN ?”

Pryce, usually brimful of valor when drunk,

Now experienced what school-boys denominate "funk. ́ In vain he look'd back

On the whole of the track

He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, And did not seem likely to pass away soon;

While clearer and clearer,

'T was plain to the hearer,

Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much "like a coffin a-walking up stairs."

Mr. Pryce had begun

To "make up" for a run,

As in such a companion he saw no great fun,
When a single bright ray

Shone out on the way

He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,

The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock! !"

'T was so !-it had certainly moved from its place,
And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;
'T was the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all-but the Face!
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes
Blazing with ire,

Like two coals of fire

And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.

No! he could not mistake it, 't was SHE to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

One glance was enough
Completely "Quant. suff."

As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"-Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff,

David turned himself round;

Ten feet of ground

He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!

I've seen people run at West End Fair for cheeses--
I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises—
At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,
And one from a Bailiff much faster than that-
At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder-
I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder—
I've seen little boys run away from a cane—

And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain;
But I never did read

Of, or witness such speed

As David exerted that evening.-Indeed

All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,

Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over

He reaches its brow,

He has past it,—and now

"PEN!"

Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity;

But, run as he will,

Or roll down the hill,

That bugbear behind him is after him still!

And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking,
Till, exhausted and sore,

He can't run any more,

But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,

And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, "Oh! Look at the Clock!-Do!-Look at the Cloek! !"

Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down,
She saw nothing there to alarm her;—a frown
Came o'er her white forehead,

She said, "It was horrid

A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;—
To squall and to bawl

About nothing at all!"

She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call;
His late wife's disaster

By no means had past her,"

She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!" Then regardless alike of his love and his woes,

She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose.

Poor David in vain

Implored to remain,

He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again.”
Why the fair was obdurate

None knows,-to be sure it

Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate
Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole

Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!
In that shady retreat

With nothing to eat

And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,

All night close he kept;

I can't say he slept;

But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept; Lamenting his sins,

And his two broken shins,

Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,
And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis,
Consigning to Satan,-viz., cruel Miss Davis!

Mr. David has since had a

"serious call,'

He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech,

And to preach, and to teach

People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!" That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,

Was right in proclaiming " ARISTON MEN UDOR!”

And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder !

And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
Mr. Pryce, if he's there,

Will get into "The Chair,"

And make all his quondam associates stare

By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter,

Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!"

The dial he constantly watches; and when

The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.," He gets on his legs,

Drains his glass to the dregs,

Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,
With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly-" Gentlemen!

LOOK AT THE CLOCK!”

THE BAGMAN'S DOG.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Stant littore Puppies!-VIRGIL

Ir was a litter, a litter of five,

Four are drown'd, and one left alive,

He was thought worthy alone to survive;

And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick;

He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick,
He could well understand

The word of command,

And appear to doze

With a crust on his nose

Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand :
Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.

Never was puppy so bien instruit,

Or possess'd of such natural talent as he;
And as he grew older,

Every beholder

Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.

Time, however his wheels we may clog,
Wends steadily still with onward jog,
And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog!
When, just at the time

He was reaching his prime,

And all thought he 'd be turning out something sublime, One unlucky day,

How no one could say,

Whether soft liaison induced him to stray,
Or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed him away,
He was lost to the view,

Like the morning dew;—

He had been, and was not—that's all that they knew
And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore
As never a Bagman had sworn before;

But storming or swearing but little avails
To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair,
The only thing strange, from the general air
Of its size and appearance, is how it got there ;
In front is a short semicircular stair

Of stone steps-some half score—

Then you reach the ground floor,

With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door.