WAS in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bed-side.

You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent like and chary,

But from her grave in Mary-bone.
They've come and boned your Mary.

VI.

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr Vyse;

And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy's.

VII.

I vow'd that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;

You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's,
In spirits and a phial.

VIII.

As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty,

There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t'other's in the city.

IX.

I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can:

As for my trunk, it's all pack'd up
To go by Pickford's van.

X.

I wish you 'd go to Mr P.

And save me such a ride;

I don't half like the outside place,
They 've took for my inside.

XI.

The cock it crows-I must be gone!
My William, we must part!
But I'll be yours in death, altho'
Sir Astley has my heart.

XII.

Don't go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;

They haven't left an atom there
Of my anatomie.

Infant Genius.

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

I.

HAPPY time! Art's early days!

When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seem'd,
And such Old Masters all were deem'd
As nothing to the young!

II.

Some scratchy strokes-abrupt and few,
So easily and swift I drew,

Sufficed for my design;

Old Gods and Heroes-Trojan-Greek,
Figures-long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly fear'd;

Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.

VI.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,
A Pallas, that out-stared her owl,
A Vulcan very lame;

A Dian stuck about with stars,
With my right hand I murder'd Mars-
(One Williams did the same.)

VII.

But tired of this dry work at last,
Crayon and chalk aside I cast,

And gave my brush a drink!

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