A Very Serious Ballad
In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.
But Brown and stout will both wear out—
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widow'd wife to mourn
At twenty pence a yard.
Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax;
And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To manumit her blacks.
With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing came thus about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church, he asked her out!
Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phoenix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand!
One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!
"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.,
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame
To burn your widows' weeds?
"It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene;
My memory—like Rogers's—
Should still be bound in green!
"Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt—
I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not
With all the leaves torn out!