“My good friends,” sighed the middle-aged gentleman, “this unhappy nephew of mine hath as many ballads in his budget as Sancho Panza had proverbs in his belly. And yet—but he seems determined to break my heart.”
Mr. Bosky appeared more bent upon cruelly cracking Uncle Timothy's sides.
“Now I bethink me of a ditty of true love, full of mirth and pastime.” And Mr. Bosky began in a droll falsetto, and with mock gravity,
THE LAST OF THE PIGTAILS.=
“When I heard she was married, thinks I to myself,
I'm now an old bachelor laid on the shelf;
The last of the Pigtails that smok'd at the Sun,
My Dora has done me, and I am undone!
I call'd at her lodgings in Dean Street, Soho;
My love's gone for ever! alas! she's no go.