Number 1's full of emeralds green, Bloudie Jacke! Number 2's full of diamond and pearl; But what does she see In drawer Number 3 That makes all her senses to whirl, Poor Girl! And each lock of her hair to uncurl?—
Wedding Fingers are sweet pretty things, Bloudie Jacke! To salute them one eagerly strives, When one kneels to "propose"— It's another quelque chose When cut off at the knuckles with knives From our wives, They are tied up in bunches of fives.
Yet there they lie, one, two, three, four! Bloudie Jacke! There lie they, five, six, seven, eight! And by them, in rows, Like eight little Great-Toes, To match in size, colour, and weight! From their state, It would seem they'd been sever'd of late.
Beside them are eight Wedding-rings, Bloudie Jacke! And the gold is as thin as a thread— "Ho! ho!—She is mine— This will make up the Nine!"— Dear me! who those shocking words said?— —She fled To hide herself under the bed.
But, alas! there's no bed in the room, Bloudie Jacke! And she peeps from the window on high; Only fancy her fright And the terrible sight Down below, which at once meets her eye! "Oh My!!" She half utter'd,—but stifled her cry.
For she saw it was You and your Man, Bloudie Jacke! And she heard your unpleasant "Haw! haw!" While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head, O'er the bridge you were trying to draw, As she saw— A thing quite contra-ry to law!
Your man has got hold of her heels, Bloudie Jacke! Bloudie Jacke! you've got hold of her hair!— But nor Jacke nor his Man Can see young Mary-Anne, She has hid herself under the stair, And there Is a horrid great Dog, I declare!
His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear, Bloudie Jacke! He's a sad ugly cur for a pet; He seems of the breed Of that "Billy," indeed, Who used to kill rats for a bet; —I forget How many one morning he ate.
He has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there, Bloudie Jacke And thigh-bones;—and, though it's so dim, Yet it's plain to be seen He has pick'd them quite clean,— She expects to be torn limb from limb, So grim He looks at her—and she looks at him!
She has given him a bun and a roll, Bloudie Jacke! She has given him a roll and a bun, And a Shrewsbury cake, Of Pailin's[42] own make, Which she happened to take ere her run She begun— She'd been used to a luncheon at One.