No wonder at all, then, one cold winter's night, That a servant girl going down stairs with a light To the cellar we've spoken of, saw, with affright, An Old Woman, astride on a barrel, invite Her to take, in a manner extremely polite, With her left hand, a bag, she had got in her right;— For tradition asserts that the Old Woman's purse Had come back to her scarcely one penny the worse!
The girl, as they say, Ran screaming away, Quite scared by the Old Woman clothed in grey; But there came down a Knight, at no distant a day, Sprightly and gay As the bird on the spray, One Sir Rufus Mountfardington, Lord of Foot's-cray, Whose estate, not unlike those of most of our "Swell" beaux, Was, what's, by a metaphor, term'd "out at elbows;" And the fact was, said knight was now merely delay'd From crossing the water to join the Crusade For converting the Pagans with bill, bow, and blade, By the want of a little pecuniary aid To buy arms and horses, the tools of his trade, And enable his troop to appear on parade;— The unquiet Shade Thought Sir Rufus, 'tis said, Just the man for her money,—she readily paid For the articles named, and with pleasure convey'd To his hands every farthing she ever had made; But alas! I'm afraid Most unwisely she laid Out her cash—the beaux yeux of a Saracen maid (Truth compels me to say a most pestilent jade) Converted the gallant converter—betray'd Him to do everything which a Knight could degrade, —E'en to worship Mahound!—She required—He obey'd,— The consequence was, all the money was wasted On Infidel pleasures he should not have tasted; So that, after a very short respite, the Hag Was seen down in her cellar again with her bag.
Don't fancy, dear Reader, I mean to go on Seriatim through so many ages by-gone, And to bore you with names Of the Squires, and the Dames, Who have managed, at times, to get hold of the sack, But spent the cash so that it always came back; The list is too long To be giv'n in my song,— There are reasons beside would perhaps make it wrong; I shall merely observe, in those orthodox days, When Mary set Smithfield all o'er in a blaze, And shew'd herself very se- -vere against heresy, While many a wretch scorned to flinch, or to scream, as he Burnt for denying the Papal supremacy, Bishop Bonner the bag got, And all thought the Hag got Releas'd, as he spent all in fuel and faggot.— But somehow—though how I can't tell you, I vow— I suppose by mismanagement—ere the next reign The Spectre had got all her money again.
The last time, I'm told, That the Old Woman's gold Was obtained,—as before,—for the asking,—'twas had By a Mr. O—Something—from Ballinafad; And the whole of it, so 'tis reported, was sent To John Wright's, in account for the Catholic Rent, And thus—like a great deal more money—"it went!" So 'tis said at Maynooth, But I can't think it's truth; Though I know it was boldly asserted last season, Still I can not believe it; and that for this reason, It's certain the cash has got back to its owner!— —Now no part of the Rent to do so e'er was known,—or, In any shape, ever come home to the donor. Gentle Reader!—you must know the proverb, I think— "To a blind horse a Nod is as good as a Wink!" Which some learned Chap, In a square College cap, Perhaps would translate by the words "Verbum Sap!"
—Now, should it so chance That you're going to France In the course of next Spring, as you probably may, Do pull up, and stay, Pray, If but for a day, At Dover, through which you must pass on your way, At the York,—or the Ship,—where, as all people say, You'll get good wine yourself, and your horses good hay, Perhaps, my good friend, you may find it will pay, And you cannot lose much by so short a delay.
First dine!—you can do That on joint or ragoût— Then say to the waiter,—"I'm just passing through,— Pray,—where can I find out the old Maison Dieu?— He'll shew you the street—(the French call it a Rue, But you won't have to give here a petit écu).
Well,—when you've got there,—never mind how you're taunted,— Ask boldly, "Pray, which is the house here that's haunted?" —I'd tell you myself, but I can't recollect The proprietor's name; but he's one of that sect Who call themselves "Friends," and whom others call "Quakers,"— You'll be sure to find out if you ask at the Baker's.— Then go down, with a light, To the cellar at night! And as soon as you see her don't be in a fright! But ask the old Hag, At once, for the bag!— If you find that she's shy, or your senses would dazzle, Nay, "Ma'am, I insist!—in the name of St. Basil!" If she gives it you, seize It, and—do as you please— But there is not a person I've ask'd but agrees, You should spend—part at least—for the Old Woman's ease! —For the rest—if it must go back some day—why—let it!— Meanwhile, if you're poor, and in love, or in debt, it May do you some good, and— I wish you may get it!!!
FOOTNOTES:
[56] Vide page 230.