ave come,
And made a snatch at me;
It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be!

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.

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.

I vowed that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's,
In spirits and a phial.

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.

I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can;
As for my trunk, it's all packed up
To go by Pickford's van.

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.

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.

Don't go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven't left an atom there
Of my anatomie.

THE WIDOW.

One widow at a grave will sob
A little while, and weep, and sigh!
If two should meet on such a job,
They'll have a gossip by and by.
If three should come together--why,
Three widows are good company!
If four should meet by any chance,
Four is a number very nice,
To have a rubber in a trice--
But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C---- (why should I not
Declare her name?--her name was Cross)
Was one of those the "common lot"
Had left to weep "no common loss";
For she had lately buried then
A man, the "very best of men,"
A lingering truth, discovered first
Whenever men "are at the worst."

To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep--
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did _not_ weep:
In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect "veil of tears."
Though ever since she lost "her prop
And stay"--alas! he wouldn't stay--
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop
From Passion's eye, as Moore would say,
Because, when Mister Cross took flight,
It looked so very like a spite--
He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if "to wet a widows' cheek,"
And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy--
'Twas nothing but a make-believe,
She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And