A chill of woe electric, begirt his heart, like lead,
He found a row of corpses, and every corpse was dead!
I've sketched him, with the crowbar, and falling pipe, to show
His awful fright, and sorrow, the fact is, such a blow
Might paralize his senses, unfit him for his trade—
I hope some kindly ladies, will have collections made.
But yet a glamoured beauty was on them all, so nice,
He felt like pins and needles, in glass of strawberry ice,
He shambled round a corner, "O Constable!" he said,
"I've found a row of corpses, and every corpse is dead!"