THE SURGEON'S WARNING.

The subject of this parody was suggested by a friend, to whom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas. Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come are requested to take notice, that nothing herein asserted concerning the aforesaid coffins is true, except that the maker and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane.

THE Doctor whisper'd to the Nurse,

And the Surgeon knew what he said; And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale, And trembled in his sick bed.

"Now fetch me my brethren, and fetch them with speed,"

The Surgeon affrighted said;

"The Parson and the Undertaker,

Let them hasten or I shall be dead."

The Parson and the Undertaker

They hastily came complying,

And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs

When they heard that their Master was dying.

The Prentices all they enter'd the room,
By one, by two, by three;
With a sly grin came Joseph in,

First of the company.

The Surgeon swore as they enter'd his door, "Twas fearful his oaths to hear,.. "Now send these scoundrels out of my sight, I beseech ye, my brethren dear!"

He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt,
And he wrinkled his black eye-brow,
"That rascal Joe would be at me, I know,
But zounds, let him spare me now!"

Then out they sent the Prentices,

The fit it left him weak,

He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes, And faintly struggled to speak.

"All kinds of carcasses I have cut up,
And now my turn will be;
But, brothers, I took care of you,
So pray take care of me.

"I have made candles of dead men's fat, The Sextons have been my slaves,

I have bottled babes unborn, and dried Hearts and livers from rifled graves.

"And my Prentices now will surely come And carve me bone from bone,

And I who have rifled the dead man's grave Shall never have rest in my own.

"Bury me in lead when I am dead,

My brethren, I entreat,

And see the coffin weigh'd, I beg,

Lest the plumber should be a cheat.

"And let it be solder'd closely down,

Strong as strong can be, I implore; And put it in a patent coffin,

That I may rise no more.

"If they carry me off in the patent coffin, Their labour will be in vain ;

Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker, Who lives by St. Martin's Lane.

"And bury me in my brother's church, For that will safer be;

And I implore, lock the church door,

And pray take care of the key.

"And all night long let three stout men The vestry watch within;

To each man give a gallon of beer,
And a keg of Holland's gin;

"Powder and ball and blunderbuss, To save me if he can,

And eke five guineas if he shoot
A Resurrection Man.

"And let them watch me for three weeks, My wretched corpse to save;

For then I think that I may stink
Enough to rest in my grave."

The Surgeon laid him down in his bed,
His eyes grew deadly dim,

Short came his breath, and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.

They put him in lead when he was dead, And with precaution meet,

First they the leaden coffin weigh,

Lest the plumber should be a cheat.

They had it solder'd closely down, And examin'd it o'er and o'er, And they put it in a patent coffin That he might rise no more.

For to carry him off in a patent coffin,

Would, they thought, be but labour in vain, So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker, Who lives by St. Martin's Lane.

In his brother's church they buried him, That safer he might be;

They lock'd the door, and would not trust The Sexton with the key.

And three men in the vestry watch
To save him if they can,

And should he come there to shoot they swear
A Resurrection Man.

And the first night by lanthorn light

Through the church-yard as they went, A guinea of gold the Sexton shew'd That Mister Joseph sent.

But conscience was tough, it was not enough,
And their honesty never swerved,
And they bade him go with Mister Joe
To the Devil as he deserved.

So all night long by the vestry fire

They quaff'd their gin and ale, And they did drink, as you may think, And told full many a tale.

The Cock he crew cock-a-doodle-doo,
Past five the watchmen said;

And they went away, for while it was day
They might safely leave the dead.

The second night by lanthorn light

Through the church-yard as they went, He whisper'd anew, and shew'd them two That Mister Joseph sent.

The guineas were bright and attracted their sight, They look'd so heavy and new,

And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd, And they knew not what to do.

But they waver'd not long, for conscience was strong, And they thought they might get more,

And they refused the gold, but not

So rudely as before.

So all night long by the vestry fire
They quaff'd their gin and ale,

And they did drink, as you may think,
And told full many a tale.

The third night as by lanthorn light

Through the church-yard they went,

He bade them see, and shew'd them three That Mister Joseph sent.

They look'd askaunce with greedy glance,
The guineas they shone bright,

For the Sexton on the yellow gold
Let fall his lanthorn light.

And he look'd sly with his roguish eye,

And gave a well-timed wink,

And they could not stand the sound in his band, For he made the guineas chink.

And conscience, late that had such weight,

All in a moment fails,

For well they knew that it was true

A dead man tells no tales.

And they gave all their powder and ball,
And took the gold so bright,

And they drank their beer and made good cheer,
Till now it was midnight.

Then, though the key of the church-door Was left with the Parson, his brother, It open'd at the Sexton's touch,... Because he had another.

And in they go with that villain Joe,
To fetch the body by night,
And all the church look'd dismally
By his dark-lanthorn light.

They laid the pick-axe to the stones, And they moved them soon asunder; They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay, And came to the coffin under.

They burst the patent coffin first,

And they cut through the lead: And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud, Because they had got at the dead.

And they allow'd the Sexton the shroud, And they put the coffin back;

And nose and knees they then did squeeze The Surgeon in a sack.

The watchmen as they pass'd along Full four yards off could smell, And a curse bestow'd upon the load So disagreeable.

So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back, And they carved him bone from bone, But what became of the Surgeon's soul Was never to mortal known.

Westbury, 1798.

HENRY THE HERMIT.

It was a little island where he dwelt,
A solitary islet, bleak and bare,
Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots
Its grey stone surface. Never mariner
Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast,
Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark
Anchor'd beside its shore. It was a place
Befitting well a rigid anchoret,

Dead to the hopes and vanities and joys,
And purposes of life: and he had dwelt
Many long years upon that lonely isle;
For in ripe manhood he abandon'd arms,
Honours and friends and country and the world,
And had grown old in solitude. That isle
Some solitary man in other times

Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found

The little chapel which his toil had built

Now by the storms unroof'd, his bed of leaves
Wind-scatter'd; and his grave o'ergrown with grass,
And thistles, whose white seeds there wing'd in vain,
Wither'd on rocks, or in the waves were lost.

So he repair'd the chapel's ruin'd roof,
Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone,
And underneath a rock that shelter'd him
From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage.

The peasants from the shore would bring him food, And beg his prayers; but human converse else He knew not in that utter solitude;

Nor ever visited the haunts of men,

Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed
Implored his blessing and his aid in death.
That summons he delay'd not to obey,
Though the night tempest or autumnal wind
Madden'd the waves; and though the mariner,
Albeit relying on his saintly load,

Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived
A most austere and self-denying man,
Till abstinence and age and watchfulness
Had worn him down, and it was pain at last
To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves
And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less,
Though with reluctance of infirmity,

Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves

And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal,
More self-condemning fervour, raised his voice
Imploring pardon for the natural sin

Of that reluctance, till the atoning prayer
Had satisfied his heart, and given it peace,

And the repented fault became a joy.

2.

Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride, Its columns cluster'd strength and lofty state, How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side, What intersecting arches graced its gate; Its towers how high, its massy walls how strong, These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song.

3.

Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground,
But little store of charity, I ween,
The passing pilgrim at Moscera found;

And often there the mendicant was seen Hopeless to turn him from the convent-door, Because this costly work still kept the brethren poor.

4.

Now all is finish'd, and from every side

They flock to view the fabric, young and old. Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride,

When on the Sabbath-day his eyes behold The multitudes that crowd his church's floor, Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more?

5.

So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way, Since sainted for a life of saintly deeds. He paused the new-rear'd convent to survey, And o'er the structure whilst his eye proceeds, Sorrow'd, as one whose holier feelings deem That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem.

6.

Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw,

And forth he came to greet the holy guest: For him he knew as one who held the law

Of Benedict, and each severe behest

So duly kept with such religious care, That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer.

Milton has made the name of Vallumbrosa familiar to English readers; few of whom, unless they have visited the spot, know that it is the chief seat of a religious order founded by St. Gualberto. A passage in one of Miss Seward's early letters shows how well Milton had observed the peculiar feature of its autumnal scenery. "I have heard my father say, that when he was in Italy with Lord Charles Fitzroy, they travelled through Vallumbrosa in autumn, after the leaves had begun to fall; and that their guide was obliged to try what was land, and what water, by pushing a long pole before him, which he carried in his hand, the vale being so very irriguous, and the leaves so totally covering the surface of the streams."- Poetical Works of Anne Seward, with Extracts from her Literary Correspondence, vol. i. p. lxxxvi.

1.

THE work is done, the fabric is complete;
Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower,
Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat,

Must toil for many a league and many an hour.
Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows,
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose.

1 This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.

7.

"Good brother, welcome !" thus Rodulfo cries, "In sooth it glads me to behold you here; It is Gualberto! and mine aged eyes

Did not deceive me: yet full many a year Hath slipt away, since last you bade farewell To me your host and my uncomfortable cell.

8.

"Twas but a sorry welcome then you found,
And such as suited ill a guest so dear.
The pile was ruinous, the base unsound;

It glads me more to bid you welcome here,
For you can call to mind our former state;
Come, brother, pass with me the new Moscera's gate."

9.

So spake the cheerful Abbot, but no smile

Of answering joy relax'd Gualberto's brow; He raised his hand and pointed to the pile,

"Moscera better pleased me then, than now; A palace this, befitting kingly pride! Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide ?”