go," he said, "into my cell; let's go alone, my dear;
I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's odious leer.
The jailer and the hangman, they are waiting both for me,--
I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee!
Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am wild,
That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child;
They say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves
The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves.
They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted beef,
I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him 'prime tariff;'
Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John Bull,
And clear a small percentage on the sale at Liverpool;
It may be so, I do not know--these things, perhaps, may be;
But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee!
Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours,--
Nay, sheriff, never con thy watch--I guess there's good two hours.
We'll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay,
For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day!"

STREAK THE SECOND.

The clock is ticking onward,
It nears the hour of doom,
And no one yet hath entered
Into that ghastly room.
The jailer and the sheriff,
They are walking to and fro:
And the hangman sits upon the steps,
And smokes his pipe below.
In grisly expectation
The prison all is bound,
And, save expectoration,
You cannot hear a sound.

The turnkey stands and ponders;--
His hand upon the bolt,--
"In twenty minutes more, I guess,
'Twill all be up with Colt!"
But see, the door is opened!
Forth comes the weeping bride;
The courteous sheriff lifts his hat,
And saunters to her side,--
"I beg your pardon, Mrs C.,
But is your husband ready?"
"I guess you'd better ask himself,"
Replied the woeful lady.

The clock is ticking onward,
The minutes almost run,
The hangman's pipe is nearly out,
'Tis on the stroke of one.
At every grated window,
Unshaven faces glare;
There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee,
And Lynch, of Delaware;
And Batter, with the long black beard,
Whom Hartford's maids know well;

And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach,
The pride of New Rochelle;
Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town,
The gallant gouging boy;
And 'coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills
That frown o'er modern Troy;
Young Julep, whom our Willis loves,
Because, 'tis said, that he
One morning from a bookstall filched
The tale of "