And mock no maiden here.
For you tread down grass, and need not;
Wear your shoes, and speed not,
And clout leather’s very dear;
But I need not care, for my sweetheart
Is a cobbler.”
I have heard this trash cited as a proof of facility of composition in slumber. You do not believe it such; like other specimens, it was a ruse of a wanton girl to excite admiration. In the magnetic somnambulism of Elizabeth Okey, that cunning little wench, who was the prima buffa of the magnetic farces enacted at the North London Hospital, would often skip about and sing snatches of equal elegance:
“I went into a tailor’s shop
To buy a suit of clothes;
But where the money came from,