The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. Mr. Pryce to commence His "ingenious defence," Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense:" "The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'"— The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He "deplored,"—he was "apt to be rather too quick;"— But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant;—all The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"
Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones, And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones." While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declared the Deceased Had styled him "a Beast," And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.
The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy, Return'd about half-past eleven at night The following verdict, "We find, Sarve her right!"
Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead, Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.
Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain; it's name you'll excuse me from telling, For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, Have really but little or nothing to do; And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far, On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R. Its first syllable "Pen," Is pronounceable;—then Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow, Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow: But we shan't have to mention it often, so when We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "Pen."
Well—the moon shone bright Upon "Pen" that night, When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, Was scaling its side With that sort of stride A man puts out when walking in search of a bride. Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire, Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest, He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; A walk all up hill is apt, we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopp'd and look'd down on the valley below. O'er fell, and o'er fen, Over mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,— Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold; Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst; And the scandalous manner in which he behaved, Killing Poets by dozens, With their uncles and cousins, Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved— Of the Court Ball, at which by a lucky mishap, Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap; And how Mr. Tudor Successfully woo'd her, Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring, And so made him Father-in-law to the King.
He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore, On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour; On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more. He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce; When a lumbering noise from behind made him start, And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, Which went pit-a-pat As he cried out "What's that?"— That very queer sound?— Does it come from the ground? Or the air,—from above,—or below,—or around?— It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking, It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, Or the tramp of a horse,—or the tread of a man,— Or the hum of a crowd,—or the shouting of boys,— It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise! Not unlike a cart's,—but that can't be; for when Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men," With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up "Pen?"
Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk, Now experienced what schoolboys denominate "funk." In vain he look'd back On the whole of the track He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, And did not seem likely to pass away soon; While clearer and clearer, 'Twas plain to the hearer, Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer, And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares, Very much "like a Coffin a-walking up stairs."
Mr. Pryce had begun To "make up" for a run, As in such a companion he saw no great fun, When a single bright ray Shone out on the way He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay, Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!" 'Twas so!—it had certainly moved from its place, And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase; 'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case, And nothing was altered at all—but the Face! In that he perceived, with no little surprise, The two little winder-holes turned into eyes Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire; And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip, And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip. No!—he could not mistake it,—'twas she to the life! The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!
One glance was enough Completely "Quant. suff." As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"— Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff, David turned himself round; Ten feet of ground He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!