Long time he carried on the trade,
Until he had a fortune made,
But for a crime he was afterwards taken,
And sent by the Judge to be hung up like bacon.
And when he came to the gallows tree,
With the Parson’s watch he did make free,
And as Jack Ketch was tying the knot,
He pick’d his pocket of all he’d got.
Now this man, he was buried, as you may suppose,
And after that the arm arose,
And join’d a body-snatching knave,
Who stole his master out of his grave.
CORK LEG.
A tale I tell now without any flam,
In Holland there dwelt Mynheer von Clam,
Who, every morning, said, I am
The richest merchant in Amsterdam.
Ri too ral, etc.
One day he had stuffed him as full as an egg,
When a poor relation came to beg,
But he kick’d him out without broaching a keg,
And in kicking him out he broke his leg.
A surgeon, the first in his vocation,
Came, and made a long oration,
He wanted a limb for anatomization,
So he finished the job by amputation.
Said Mynheer, said he, when he’d done his work,
By your sharp knife, I lost one fork,
But on two crutches I’ll never stalk,
For I’ll have a beautiful leg of cork.
An artist in Rotterdam ’twould seem,
Had made cork legs, his study and theme:
Each joint was as strong as an iron beam,
The springs a compound of clockwork and steam.
The leg was made and fitted tight,
Inspection the artist did invite,
The fine shape gave Mynheer delight,
And he fixed it on and screwed it tight.