g
From his open jaw:
And his pulse beat somewhat quicker
Than it did before,
And he finished off his liquor,
Staggered through the door;

Bolted off direct to Munich,
And within the year
Underneath his German tunic
Stowed whole butts of beer.
And he drank like fifty fishes,
Drank till all was blue;
For he felt extremely vicious--
Somewhat thirsty too.

But at length this dire deboshing
Drew towards an end;
Few of all his silver groschen
Had he left to spend.
And he knew it was not prudent
Longer to remain;
So, with weary feet, the student
Wended home again.

At the tavern's well-known portal
Knocks he as before,
And a waiter, rather mortal,
Hiccups through the door--
"Master's sleeping in the kitchen;
You'll alarm the house;
Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen
Married baker Kraus!"

Like a fiery comet bristling,
Rose the young man's hair,
And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling
Out of sheer despair.
Down the gloomy street in silence,
Savage-calm he goes;
But he did no deed of vi'lence--
Only blew his nose.

Then he hired an airy garret
Near her dwelling-place;
Grew a beard of fiercest carrot,
Never washed his face;
Sate all day beside the casement,
Sate a dreary man;
Found in smoking such an easement
As the wretched can;

Stared for hours and hours together,
Stared yet more and more;
Till in fine and sunny weather,
At the baker's door,
Stood, in apron white and mealy,
That beloved dame,
Counting out the loaves so freely,
Selling of the same.

Then like a volcano puffing,
Smoked he out his pipe;
Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing,
Ham and kraut and tripe;
Went to bed, and, in the morning,
Waited as before,
Still his eyes in anguish turning
To the baker's door;

Till, with apron white and mealy,
Came the lovely dame,
Counting out the loaves so freely,
Selling of the same.
So one day--the fact's amazing!--
On his post he died!
And they found the body gazing
At the baker's bride.

Night and Morning.

[NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON.]

"Thy coffee, Tom, 's untasted,
And thy egg is very cold;
Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,
Not rosy as of old.
My boy, what has come o'er ye?
You surely are not well!
Try some of that ham before ye,
And then, Tom, ring the bell!"

"I cannot eat, my mother,
My tongue is parched and bound,
And my head, somehow or other,
Is swimming round and round.
In my eyes