Out all night!

Me in a fright;

Staggering home as it's just getting light!

You intoxified brute !-you insensible block!—
Look at the Clock !-Do !-Look at the Clock!"

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,

Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,

And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;

Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,.

Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tucked through the pocketholes;

A face like a ferret

Betoken'd her spirit:

To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue..

Now David Pryce

Had one darling vice;

Remarkably partial to anything nice,
Especially ale

If it was not too stale

I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;
Not that in Wales

They talk of their Ales;

To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.

That particular day,

As I've heard people say,

Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots
The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-boots.

David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock !"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three !

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and fast;
But patience is apt to wear out at last,

And David Pryce in temper was quick,

So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,

But walking just then wasn't very convenient,
So he threw it, instead,

Direct at her head;

It knock'd off her hat;
Down she fell flat;

Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
But whatever it was,-whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,

Or her trouble induced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain-but this I can,
When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne i

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.
Not far from his dwelling,

From the vale proudly swelling,

Rose a mountain; its name you'll excuse me from telling, For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few

That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,

Have really but little or nothing to do;

And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.
Its first syllable "PEN,"

Is pronounceable ;-then

Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N;
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we 'll curtail it to "PEN."

Well-the moon shone bright

Upon "PEN" that night,

When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
Was scaling its side

With that sort of a stride

A man puts on when walking in search of a bride,
Mounting higher and higher,

He began to perspire,

Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
And feeling opprest

By a pain in his chest,

He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; 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!

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!!"
'Twas so it had certainly moved from its place,
And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;

'Twas 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 turned 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,-'twas SHE to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

One glance was enough,
Completely" Quant. Suff."

their "stuff,"

As the doctors write down when they send you
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!

All I ever heard of boys, women, or men,
Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!"
He now reaches its brow,—

He has past it, and now

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 Clock!!"

Mr. David has since had a 66

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!"

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 the President's hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly-"Gentlemen!

"LOOK AT THE CLOCK !!!??

THE MARCH WIND.-ANNE P. ADAMS.

OVER the earth,

In frolicsome mirth,

The March wind goes careering;

Through pine-bough he sighs,
O'er mountains he hies,

By a compass invisible steering.

List to his song,

You'll hear it ere long,

Down through the chimney he 'll-whistle,

Now it is shrill,

Anon, he is still,

As if stealing down from a thistle.