St. Giles’s clock had sounded two,
The moon was on the wane,
And bitterly the north wind blew;
In torrents fell the rain.
When like a goblin from the grave,
A ghastly form appear’d,
And thrice a grievous groan it gave,
Thrice scratch’d its grisly beard.
Tall, wretched, shiv’ring, pale and thin,
It brav’d the pelting storm,
Without an upper Benjamin
To keep the carcase warm.
Prostrate upon the flags it lay,
Where Seven Dials meet;
And “Och!” it cried, “is this the way
A jontleman to treat?
“I soon must haste to join the throng
On Pluto’s dreary coast—
I’ve given up my spirits long,
Now I’ll give up the ghost.
“Yes! I must go, at fate’s command,
In Charon’s ferry boat,
And change the rattle in my hand
For rattles in my throat.
“That rattle which the prigs to catch
Would other Charleys bring,
Watchmen, we know, are like a watch—
Nothing without a spring.
“My lanthorn!—and the thought, I vow,
The sob of sorrow draws;
No lanthorn can I carry now,
Except my lanthorn jaws.
“With grief unfeign’d my heart is big—
The power of utterance fails,
And losing thee, my old Welsh wig,
This tortur’d heart be-Wails.
“My night-cap red, which this poor head
Hath screen’d from damp and dew,
Like my poor cap, I’ve lost my nap,
And I am worsted too.
“Snug in my box I bore the shocks
Of drunkard’s jeer and scoffing;
Now the vile cough will take me off,
And box me in a coffin.
“To thee, my pipe, my bosom yearns—
Those moments, free from pain,
In which I sat and smok’d returns,
Will ne’er return again.
“This New Police has laid me flat—
Let Christian hearts condole;
And in the mud they roll poor Pat,
Who once was a Patrol.
“Och! when I think of former years,
It almost drives me crazy;
Bear up, my sowl—be dry, my tears—
My throbbing heart be azy.
“Once I was young, but now I’m owld,
Once full of fun and frisky—
But now I shudder with the cowld
And the devil a drop of whisky!”
He spoke, and sadly gaz’d around
(The last words he could utter),
Then with a mournful guttural sound,
Roll’d headlong in the gutter. |
