His money gone, of course he sank
In debt from day to day,—
His way would not pay him—and so
He could not pay his way.
Said he, “All parties run me down—
How bitter is my cup!
My landlord is the only man
That ever runs me up!
“And he begins to talk of scores,
And will not draw a cork;”—
And then he rail’d at Fortune, since
He could not rail at York!
The morrow, in a fatal noose
They found him hanging fast;
This sentence scribbled on the wall,—
“I’ve got my line at last!”
Twelve men upon the body sate,
And thus, on oath, did say,
“We find he got his gruel, ‘cause
He couldn’t have his way!”
POMPEY’S GHOST.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.”—Cowper.
’Twas twelve o’clock, not twelve at night,
But twelve o’clock at noon,
Because the sun was shining bright,
And not the silver moon:
A proper time for friends to call,
Or Pots, or Penny Post;
When, lo! as Phœbe sat at work,
She saw her Pompey’s Ghost!
Now when a female has a call
From people that are dead,
Like Paris ladies, she receives
Her visitors in bed:
But Pompey’s Spirit could not come
Like spirits that are white,
Because he was a Blackamoor,
And wouldn’t show at night!