Now, by way of a hepitaph, simple and strong,
I'd just recommend them to stick up my song,
With—“ Hanc cantilenam, sapore magno,
Victoria regnante, cantavit Barlo!"
Heigho! tip it 'em so:
A touch of that clarsical horther, Barlow!
TOM GARDENER.
[Tune-" The College Hornpipe."
IN a seaport town, that's very well known,
Where, during the war, the people had shown
The best of dispositions in service of the Crown,
There lived a jolly fellow named Gardener.
He was very well known to each servant maid,
For he was a baker-the best in the trade
For making buns and muffins, and everybody said
They could always tell the rolls of Tom Gar-
dener.
Now, every evening he drank his wine
At a public-house, I forget the sign;
But 'twas kept by a widow of about thirty-nine,
Who was very much admired by Tom Gardener.
And ev'ry night since she had lost her spouse,
The good-natured doughy patronized her house,
And enticed all the bakers in the town to carouse
At the merry widow's crib, did Tom Gardener.
She was very fat, and had a laughing eye,
And very good natur'd, and not at all shy;
The people all admired her without knowing why,
And which was just the case with Tom Gardener.
To please the jolly landlady was all Tom's aim,
He marked all his loaves with th' initials of her name;
Cross buns on Good Friday were presented to the
dame,
And rolls ev'ry morning by Tom Gardener.
There was among the customers that fill'd her forms,
A pilot, Bill Yarn, who had weather'd many storms,
And tho' he never seem'd to be smitten with her
charms,
He always stopped as late as Tom Gardener.
He was one of the see-all-and-say-nothing kind,
But he knew very well whereabout blew the wind,
And steer'd in such a way as veer'd the widow's mind,
And bore her full sail from cove Gardener.
Tom Gardener the widow intended to wed-
It was a settled thing, all the customers said;
But somehow or other it had ne'er come in his head
To ask her if she'd be Mrs. Gardener.
And one morning, as usual, some rolls he sent,
But when, after that, to the widow's he went,
To ask her how she did, what was his astonishment,
When the widow spoke as follows to Tom Gar-
dener.
"They were very nice rolls you sent me this morn,
We had 'em for breakfast on our return
From church, where, you know, I've been made Mrs. Yarn.'
"Indeed! I didn't know it," said Tom Gardener.
"And I tell you what, widow, now may I be curst! But I think of us two you have chosen the worst ; What could be your reason?"-Said she, "He asked me first,*
And I wouldn't lose a chance, Mr. Gardener.” "If that's the case, the fault was mine, And all I can say is, I should have been thine." At which Mrs. Yarn, giving Tom a look divine,
Said, "You shall be my next, Mr. Gardener." What Mrs. Yarn said, Tom took in good part, And still from her house was the last man to start; But though she ever kept a hold on his heart
She got no more rolls from Tom Gardener.
By the brink of a murmuring brook
A contemplative Cockney reclined;
Dejected and worn was his look,
As if care were at work on his mind.
For he sighed now and then, as one sighs
When the heart with sad sentiment swells,
And the tears came and stood in his eyes
As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells.
Oh! 'tis I am a Cockney born, &c.
I am monarch of all I survey
(Thus he vented his feelings in words),
But my kingdom, it grieves me to say,
Is inhabited chiefly by birds.
In the brook that runs leisurely by,
I imagine one tittlebat dwells;
For I saw something jump for a fly
As I lay here and long'd for Bow Bells.
Yorder cattle are feeding, 'tis clear,
From their bobbing their heads up and down;
But I cannot love cattle down here
As I should if I met them in town.
Poets say that each whispering breeze
Bears a melody laden with spells;
But I can't find the music in these
That I find in the tone of Bow Bells.
I am partial to trees, as a rule,
And the rose is an exquisite flower;
For I once read a ballad at school
Of a rose that was washed in a shower.
But although I may doat on the rose,
I can hardly believe that it smells
Quite so sweet in the country as those
Which buy within sound of Bow Bells.
No; I've been out of town once or twice,
And at last I have made up my mind
That the country is all very nice,
But I'd much rather mix with my kind.
So to-day, should I meet with a train,
I will flee from these hills and these dells;
And to-night I will sleep once again,
Happy thought! within sound of Bow Bells!
THERE lived once not long ago,
In that suburb called Pim-er-li-co,
A servant girl whose name I've heard
Was Hannah Maria Susannah Bird;
She fell in love, as females will,
With a hairdresser whose name was Bill;
A likely young man to fascinate the girls,
And his hair hung down his back in large black curls.
This is not a comedy, but a dreadful tragedy.
Fe, fi, fo, fum, fol de riddle day.
Now William he was the nicest of fellahs,
But Mary Ann was most awfully jealous;
She made him promise that he never would
Cut a lady's hair or she'd cut him for good.
Now William, tho' he'd an eye to saving,
He cut hair-dressing and took to shaving;
While Mary Ann her wages sank
In the Moorfields branch of the savings Bank. [Chorus.
Now things went on for a year and a day,
And they used to walk out reg-u-lar-lay;
And if all went as they both thought right,
They agreed to be married on the Sunday fortnight.
One night Mary Ann, going out to tea,
Passing by William's shop she see
Such a sight as nearly lost her her senses,
And this is where the horrible part commences:
Behind the counter was William there,
Cutting and curling of a lady's hair;
Which had such an effect on her feelings, they say,
She turn'd pale blue, and fainted away.
They carried her home when she re-kivered,
Tho' all the way there she shook and shivered;
Then worse than any heroine of Douglas Jerrold,
She poison'd herself with a Family Herald. [Chorus.
When he heard the news he exclaim'd; "O Lor!"
And his hair out by pailsful he tore ;
He saw it all as clear as air,
She'd seen him a combing of a dummy's hair!
He grew pale and thin, and neglected his supper,
Went under Banting, and read Martin Tupper;
Till at last, to give his feelings relief,
He choked himself with a bit of jerked beef. [Chorus.
Mary Ann was laid in a grave hard by,
At the corner of Be-romp-ton Ce-me-tr-y.
While William's remains, if you'd like to see 'em,
Are always to be found in the British Museum.
The barber's shop fell to de-cay :
'Twas haunted by their ghosts, they say,
Till Dircks and Pepper becoming aware of 'em, Took out their patent and exhibited the pair of 'em. [Chorus.
LOVE's a killing thing,-many people know it,
What I'm going to sing will very plainly show it.
Mister Ro-me-o in love fell with Miss Juliet,
His heart did burn him so, he staid out all night to cool it.
Miss Ju-li-et's Papa and Ma took all occasions
To be at open war with Ro-me-o's relations;
The cause nobody knows, nor does it now much matter,
But as the story goes, Romeo swore he would get at her.
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