While the fingers and thumb of the hand he had got In his clutches became on the instant red hot!!
Now he whirls and he twirls Through the girls in their curls, And their rouge, and their feathers, and diamonds, and pearls; Now high,—now low,— Now fast, and now slow, In terrible circumgyration they go, The flame-coloured Belle and her coffee-faced Beau! Up they go once! and up they go twice!— Round the hall!—round the hall!—and now up they go thrice! Now one grand pirouette, the performance to crown! Now again they go up!!—and they never come down!!!
The thunder roars! And the rain it pours! And the lightning comes in through the windows and doors! Then more calling, and bawling, And squalling, and falling, Oh! what a fearful "stramash" they are all in! Out they all sally, The whole corps de ballet— Some dash down Holborn-hill into the valley, Where stagnates Fleet Ditch at the end of Harp Alley, Some t'other way, with a speed quite amazing, Nor pause to take breath till they get beyond Gray's Inn. In every sense of the word, such a rout of it, Never was made in London, or out of it!
When they came the next day to examine the scene, There was scarcely a vestige of all that had been; The beautiful tapestry, blue, red, and green, Was all blacken'd and scorch'd, and look'd dirty and mean, All the crockery broken, dish, plate, and tureen! While those who look'd up could perceive in the roof One very large hole in the shape of a hoof!
Of poor Lady Hatton, it's needless to say No traces have ever been found to this day, Or the terrible dancer who whisk'd her away; But out in the court-yard—and just in that part Where the pump stands—lay bleeding a large Human Heart! And sundry large stains Of blood and of brains, Which had not been wash'd off notwithstanding the rains, Appear'd on the wood, and the handle and chains, As if somebody's head with a very hard thump, Had been recently knock'd on the top of the pump. That pump is no more!—that of which you've just read,— But they've put a new iron one up in its stead,
And still, it is said, At that "small hour" so dread, When all sober people are cosey in bed, There may sometimes be seen on a moonshiny night, Standing close by the new pump, a Lady in White, Who keeps pumping away with, 'twould seem, all her might, Though never a drop comes her pains to requite! And hence many passengers now are debarr'd From proceeding at nightfall through Bleeding Heart Yard!
Moral.
Fair ladies, attend! And if you've a "friend At Court," don't attempt to bamboozle or trick her! —Don't meddle with negus, or any mix'd liquor!— Don't dabble in "Magic!" my story has shown How wrong 'tis to use any charms but your own!