akfast and sleep."

Shrill blew the morning breeze,
Biting and cold.
Bleak peers the gray dawn
Over the wold!
Bleak over moor and stream
Looks the gray dawn,
Gray with dishevelled hair.
Still stands the willow there--
The maid is gone!

Whether her pa and ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know.
Stern they received her;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short, night,--
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.

Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany--
Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary;
Sing we a litany,
Wail we and weep we a wild miserere!

MORAL.

Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the fiddlety,
Maidens of England take caution by she!
Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take the door-key!

Mr. George Fitz-Boodle gave his name to other narratives beyond his own
_Confessions_. A series of stories was carried on by him in _Fraser_,
called _Men's Wives_, containing three; _Ravenwing_, _Mr. and Mrs.
Frank Berry_, and _Dennis Hoggarty's Wife_. The first chapter in _Mr.
and Mrs. Frank Berry_ describes "The Fight at Slaughter House."
Slaughter House, as Mr. Venables reminded us in the last chapter, was
near Smithfield in London,--the school which afterwards became Grey
Friars; and the fight between Biggs and Berry is the record of one which
took place in the flesh when Thackeray was at the Charter House. But Mr.
Fitz-Boodle's name was afterwards attached to a greater work than these,
to a work so great that subsequent editors have thought him to be
unworthy of the honour. In the January number, 1844, of _Fraser's
Magazine_, are commenced the _Memoirs of Barry Lyndon_, and the
authorship is attributed to Mr. Fitz-Boodle. The title given in the
magazine was _The Luck of Barry Lyndon: a Romance of the last Century_.
By Fitz-Boodle. In the collected edition of Thackeray's works the
_Memoirs_ are given as "Written by himself," and were, I presume, so
brought out by Thackeray, after they had appeared in _Fraser_. Why Mr.
George Fitz-Boodle should have been robbed of so great an honour I do
not know.

In imagination, language, construction, and general literary capacity,
Thackeray never did anything more remarkable than