And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think, in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found. THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. GALLIANT gents and lovely ladies, At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell. Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, In this street there lived a housemaid, If you particklarly ask me where— Vy, it vas at four and tventy, Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square. Vich her name was Eliza Davis, And she went to fetch the beer: In the street she met a party As was quite surprized to see her. Vich he vas a British Sailor, For to judge him by his look : Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies, Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke. Presently this Mann accostes Of this hinnocent young gal— Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom, You're so like my Sister Sal! You're so like my Sister Sally, I'm a mate on board a wessel, What's your name, my beauty, tell me? And I live at tventy-four." Hofttimes came this British seaman, And Eliza told her Master, (Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar. And he brought his landlady vith him, And how she herself had lived in And Eliza listened to them, And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin, Hand the clergyman jine their ands. And he ast about the lodgers, (Vich her master let some rooms), Likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons. Hand this vicked Charley Thompson Hout to fetch a pint of beer. Hand while pore Eliza vent to To the lodgers, their apartments, Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes. Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, But a hi was fixt upon 'em Vich these raskles little sore; Namely, Mr. Hide the landlord, Of the house at tventy-four. He vas valkin in his garden, Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled; Something's going wrong, he said; And he caught the vicked voman Underneath the lodger's bed. And he called a brother Pleaseman, And that Pleaseman able-bodied And though vicked Charley Thompson And this precious pair of raskles Has for poor Eliza Davis, Simple gurl of tventy-four, She, I ope, vill never listen In the streets to sailors moar. But if she must ave a sweet-art, |