"He wasn't hanged at all," replied Pounce.
"I'm blowed," said the chairman, "if I didn't think so, all along."
"How he got it I do not pretend to know," said Pounce, blowing his nose, and looking aside, "but the very next day after we had paid him a visit, he was found dead on his bed, with a small empty phial, that smelt strongly of prussic acid, clenched in his fist."
The clock here stuck twelve, the hour at which the club disperses according to the rules; so Timmins and I toddled home.
OUR SONG OF THE MONTH.
No. III. March, 1837.
I. March, March! why the de'il don't you march Faster than other months out of your order? You're a horrible beast, with the wind from the East, And high-hopping hail and slight sleet on your border: Now, our umbrellas spread, flutter above our head, And will not stand to our arms in good order; While, flapping and tearing, they set a man swearing Round the corner, where blasts blow away half the border!
II. March, March! I am ready to faint That St. Patrick had not his nativity's casting; I am sure, if he had, such a peaceable lad Would have never been born amid blowing and blasting: But as it was his fate, Irishmen emulate Doing what Doom, or St. Paddy may order; And if they're forced to fight through their wrongs for their right, They'll stick to their flag while a thread's in its border.
III. March, March! have you no feeling, E'en for the fair sex who make us knock under? You cold-blooded divil, you're far more uncivil Than Summer himself, with his terrible thunder! Every day we meet ladies down Regent-street, Holding their handkerchiefs up in good order; But, do all that we can, the most merciful man Must see the blue noses peep over the border. S. Lover.