To anticipate mistake, the above title refers not to Thomas Haynes -or F. W. N.-or even to any Publishers-but the original Old Bailey. It belongs to a set of Songs composed during the courtly leisure of what is technically called a Juryman in Waiting-that is, one of a corps de reserve, held in readiness to fill up the gaps which extraordinary mental exertion-or sedentary habits-or starvation, may make in the Council of Twelve. This wrong box it was once my fortune to get into. On the 5th of November, at the 6th hour, leaving my bed and the luxurious perusal of Taylor on Early Rising-I walked from a yellow fog into a black one, in my unwilling way to the New Court, which sweet herbs even could not sweeten, for the sole purpose of making criminals uncomfortable. A neighbour, a retired sea Captain with a wooden leg, now literally a jury-mast, limped with me from Highbury Terrace on the same hanging errand-a personified Halter. Our legal drill Corporal was Serjeant Arabin, and when our muster roll without butter was over, before breakfast, the uninitiated can form no idea of the ludicrousness of the excuses of the would-be Nonjurors,-aggravated by the solemnity of a previous oath, the delivery from a witness-box like a pulpit, and the professional gravity of the Court. One weakly old gentleman had been ordered by his physician to eat little, but often, and apprehended even fatal consequences from being locked up with an obstinate eleven; another conscientions demurrer desired time to make himself master of his duties, by consulting Jonathan Wild, Vidocq, Hardy Vaux. and Lazarillo de Tormes. But the number o

deaf men who objected the hardness of their hearing criminal cases was beyond belief. The Publishers of "Curtis on the Ear" and "Wright on the Ear"-(two popular surgical works, though rather suggestive of Pugilism)-ought to have stentorian agents in that Court. Defective on one side myself, I was literally ashamed to strike up singly in such a chorus of muffled double drums, and tacitly suffered my ears to be boxed with a common Jury. I heard, on the right hand, a Judge's charge-an arraignment and evidence to match, with great dexterity, but failing to catch the defence from the left hand, refused naturally to concur in any sinister verdict. The learned Serjeant, I presume, as I was only half deaf, only half discharged me,-committing me to the relay-box, as a juror in Waiting,-and from which I was relieved only by his successor, Sir Thomas Denman, and to justify my dullness, I made even his stupendous voice to repeat my dismissal twice over!

It was during this compelled attendance that the project struck me of a Series of Lays of Larceny, combining Sin and Sentiment in that melo-dramatic mixture which is so congenial to the cholera morbid sensibility of the present age and stage. The following are merely specimens, but a hint from the Powers that be,-in the Strand,-will promptly produce a handsome volume of the remainder, with a grateful Dedication to the learned Serjeant.

LINES TO MARY.

(AT NO. 1, NEWGATE, FAVOURED BY MR. WONTNEZ}

O MARY, I believ'd you true,
And I was blest in so believing;
But till this hour I never knew-
That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss,
Or some such trifle when I courted,
You said, indeed, that love was bliss,
But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face-
It would have been an unfair feeling,
To dream that you had pilfered lace-
And Flints had suffer'd from your stealing

Or when my suit I first preferr'd,
To bring your coldness to repentance,
Before I hammer'd out a word,

How could I dream you'd heard a sentence !

Or when with all the warmth of youth

I strove to prove my love no fiction,
How could I guess I urged a truth
On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part,

Your hand-where I have look'd and linger'd,

Altho' it stole away my heart,

Had been held up as one light-finger'd!

In melting verse your charms I drew,

The charms in which my muse delighted—
Alas! the lay, I thought was new,
Spoke only what had been indicted!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,
Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,
I little thought that you had run

A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick'd me from the world,
My vanity it now must shock it—
And down at once my pride is hurl'd,

You've pick'd me—and you've pick'd a pocke!,

Oh! when our love had got so far,
The banns were read by Dr. Daly,
Who asked if there was any bar-

Why did not some one shout " Old Bailey ?"

But when you rob'd your flesh and bones
In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
Among the Joans that link with Darbies?

And when the parson came to say,
My goods were yours, if I had got any,
And you should honour and obey,

Who could have thought-"O Bay of Botany."

But, oh, the worst of all your slips
I did not till this day discover-
That down in Deptford's prison ships,
Oh, Mary! you've a hulking lover!

He has shav'd off his whiskers and blacken'd his brows,

Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,

But it's him-Oh it's him!-we exchanged lovers' vows, When I lived up in Cavendish Square.

He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same,

And his voice was as soft as a flute

Like a Lord or a Marquis he look'd, when he came,
To make love in his master's best suit.

If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth,
I shall never forget what he told;

How he lov'd me beyond the rich women of earth,
With their jewels and silver and gold!

When he kiss'd me and bade me adieu with a sigh,
By the light of the sweetest of moons,

Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye
To my Missis's tea-pot and spoons!

No. III.

"I'd be a Parody."-BAILEY.

WE met 'twas in a mob-and I thought he had done me-
I felt I could not feel-for no watch was upon me;
He ran the night was cold-and his pace was unalter'd,
I too longed much to pelt-but my small-boned legs falter'd.
I wore my bran new boots-and unrivall'd their brightness,
They fit me to a hair-how I hated their tightness!
I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether
Oh thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

And once again we met and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low-but 'twas no use to fear him;
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept as he deserv'd-to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried-but I shall ne'er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay,-heart and feet ache together,
Oh thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather.