Such was old Brentford's honest testament;
He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,
To say his young son Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.
Long time the famous reign of Ned endured,
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.
And when both died, as mortal men will do,
'T was commonly reported that the steward
Was very much the richer of the two.
TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.
W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.
My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
I.
With twenty pounds but three weeks since
From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel,
I thought myself as rich a prince
As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.
Confiding in my ample means—
In troth, I was a happy chiel!
I passed the gate of Valenciennes.
I never thought to come by Lille.
I never thought my twenty pounds
Some rascal knave would dare to steal;
I gayly passed the Belgic bounds
At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.
To Antwerp town I hastened post,
And as I took my evening meal
I felt my pouch,—my purse was lost,
O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?
I straightway called for ink and pen,
To grandmamma I made appeal;
Meanwhile a load of guineas ten
I borrowed from a friend so leal.