'T was here that the lovers, intent upon love, Laid a nice little plot

To meet at a spot

Near a mulberry-tree in a neigboring grove;
For the plan was all laid,

By the youth and the maid,

(Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones,)
To run off and get married in spite of the old ones.
In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse,
The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house,
The mulberry-tree impatient to find,

While PETER, the vigilant matrons to blind,
Strolled leisurely out, some minutes behind.

While waiting alone by the trysting tree,
A terrible lion

As e'er you set eye on,

Came roaring along quite horrid to see,
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee,
(A lion's a creature whose regular trade is
Blood-and "a terrible thing among ladies,”)
And losing her vail as she ran from the wood,
The monster bedabbled it over with blood.

Now PETER arriving, and seeing the vail
All covered o'er,

And reeking with gore,

Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail,-
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor PETER
Made up his mind, in very short meter,

That THISBE was dead, and the lion had eat her!
So breathing a prayer,

He determined to share

The fate of his darling, "the loved and the lost,"
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!

NOW THISBE returning, and viewing her beau,
Lying dead by the vail, (which she happened to know,)
She guessed, in a moment, the cause of his erring,
And seizing the knife

Which had taken his life,

In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring!

MORAL.

Young gentlemen!-pray recollect, if you please,
Not to make assignations near mulberry-trees.
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead.
Young ladies!-you should n't go strolling about
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out;
And remember that accidents often befall

From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall!

Ex. CXLVIII.—THE EXECUTION.*

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day,
It was half after two,-
He had nothing to do;

So his lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim

Was clean of limb,

His boots were polished, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,

BARHAM.

He stood in stockings just four feet ten;
And he asked, as he held the door on the swing,
"Pray, did your lordship please to ring ?"

My Lord Tomnoddy raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said:

"Malibran's dead,

Duvernay's fled,

Taglioni has not arrived in her stead ;-
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,

What may a nobleman find to do ?"

Tim looked up, and Tim looked down;

He paused, and put on a thoughtful frown;

And he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown, He bit his lip, and he scratched his head,

He let go the handle, and thus he said,

*A chapter from the book of London life.

As the door, released, behind him banged,

"An 't please you, my lord, there's a man to be hanged !"

My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news,"Run to M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope dancers a score

I have seen before,

Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Blackmore;
But to see a man swing

At the end of a string,

With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"
My Lord Tomnoddy stepped into his cab-
Dark rifle-green, with a lining of drab;

Through street and through square,
His high-trotting mare,

Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air.
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place

Went the high-trotting mare at a deuce of a pace;
She produced some alarm,

But did no great harm,

Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay

Two urchins at play,

Knocking down, very much to the sweeper's dismay,-
An old woman, who would 'nt get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall
Near Exeter Hall,

Which made all the passing church-mission folks squall
But eastward afar
Through Temple Bar,

My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;
Never heeding their squalls,

Or their calls, or their bawls,

He passes by Waithman's emporium for shawls,
And merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the old Bailey,

Where in front of the jail, he

Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gayly
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first floor of the Magpie and Stump ?"

The clock strikes twelve,-it is dark midnight,-
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met;

The tables are set;

There is "punch," "cold without," "hot within," "heavy wet,"

Ale-glasses and jugs,

And rummers and mugs,

And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
Cold fowl and cigars,

Pickled onions in jars,

Welsh rabbits, and kidneys, rare work for the jaws!—
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,—
All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"

The clock strikes One!

Supper is done,

And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions, every one !"
My Lord Tomnoddy

Is drinking gin-toddy,

And laughing at every thing, and every body.
The clock strikes Two!—and the clock strikes Three !—
"Who so merry, so merry as we ?"

Save Captain M'Fuze,

Who is taking a snooze,

While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

The clock strikes Four!

Round the debtor's door

Are gathered a couple of thousands or more;
As many await

At the press-yard gate,

Till slowly its folding-doors open; and straight
The mob divides; and between their ranks

A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

The clock strikes Five!

The sheriffs arrive,

And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive;

But Sir Carnaby Jenks
Blinks and winks,

A candle burns down in the socket, and-hem !—
Lieutenant Tregooze

Is dreaming of Jews,

And acceptances of the bill-brokers' refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy;

And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.
Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seemed as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,-
All,-save the wretch condemned to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a sun

As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such scenes of misery!
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows tree!

And hark!-a sound comes big with fate,

The clock from St. Sepulcher's tower strikes-Eight !— List to that low funeral bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!

And see !-from forth that opening door

They come-he steps the threshold o'er

Who never shall tread upon threshold more.-
God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see

That pale man's mute agony,

The glare of that wild, despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 't were scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,—not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-Enough, 'tis done!—
The bolt has fallen!-The spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known to but One!-
Oh! 't was a fearsome sight! Ah, me!
A deed to shudder at,-not to see.
Again that clock!-'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past;-with its earliest chime