DICK

cock,

And pull'd his breeches on;

Down the staircase of wood, as fast as he could, The valiant shaver ran.

He went not to the country forth

To shave or frizzle hair;

Nor to join in the battle to be fought

At Canterbury fair.

Yet his hat was fiercely cocked, and his razors in his pocket,

And his torturing irons he bore;
A staff of crab-tree in his hand had he,
Full five feet long and more.

The barber return'd in three days space,
And blistered were his feet;
And sad and peevish were his looks,
As he turn'd the corner street.

He came not from where Canterbury
Ran ankle-deep in blood;
Where butcher Jem, and his comrades grim,
The shaving tribe withstood.

Yet were his eyes bruis'd black and blue;
His cravat twisted and tore;
His razors were with gore imbued→→→
But it was not professional gore."

He halted at the painted pole,
Full loudly did he rap,
And whistled on his shaving boy,
Whose name was Johnny Strap.

Come hither,come hither, young tickle-beard,
And mind that you tell me true,
For these three long days that I've been away,
What did Mrs Gossip do?

When the clock struck eight, Mrs Gossip went straight,

In spite of the pattering rain, Without stay or stop to the butcher's shop, That lives in Cleaver-lane.

We have no wish to injure the reputation of this gentleman; but, from the above stanza, it is evident that his hand was liable to tremor, whether from natural nervous debility, or the effect of brandy, we cannot take upon us to determine.

Where she sat upon a chair,

No person was in the butcher's shop-
The devil a soul was there.

The second night I 'spy'd a light

As I went up the strand, "Twas she who ran, with pattens on,

And a lanthorn in her hand:

She laid it down upon a bench,

And shook her wet attire ;
And drew in the elbow chair, to warm
Her toes before the fire.

In the twinkling of a walking stick,*
A greasy butcher came,
And with a pair of bellows, he

Blew up the dying flame,

And many a word the butcher spoke
To Mrs Gossip there,

But the rain fell fast, and it blew such a blast,
That I could not tell what they were.:

The third night there the sky was fair,
There neither was wind nor rain;
And again I watch'd the secret pair

At the shop in Cleaver-lane.

And I heard her say, " Dick Gossip's away,
So we'll be blithe and merry,
And the bolts I'll undo, sweet butcher to you,
On the eve of good St Jerry.+

"I cannot come, I must not come❞
For shame, faint hearted snarler,
Must I then moan, and sit alone,
In Dicky Gossip's parlour.

"The dog shall not tear you, and Strap shall not hear you,

And blankets I'll spread on the stair; By the blood-red sherry, § and holy St Jerry, I conjure thee sweet butcher be there."

*From this line, it is to be inferred, that the oaken saplings of our ancestors rivalled in elasticity the bamboo canes of our modern dandies.

+ We have in vain scrutinized the kalendar for the name of this saint.

After his master's misfortune, this gentleman settled in the north, and was the great grand-father of that Strap, so honourably noticed by Smollet.

§ This valuable species of wine is unfortunately for modern epicures now unknown.

"Tho' the dog should not tear me, and

Strap should not hear me, And blankets be spread on the stair, Yet there's Mr Parrot, who sleeps in the garret, To my footsteps he could swear.".

"Fear not, Mr Parrot, who sleeps in the garret, For to Hampstead the way he has ta'en; An inquest to hold, as I have been told,

On the corpse of a butcher that's slain.

"He turned him around, and grimly he frown'd,

And he laugh'd right scornfully, The inquest that's held, on the man that's been kill'd,

May as well be held on me.'

"At the lone midnight hour, when hobgob. lins have power,

In thy chamber I'll appear ;""With that he was gone, and your wife left alone,

And I came running here."— Then changed I trow, was the barber's brow, From the chalk to the beet-root red, Now tell me the mien of the butcher thou'st

seen,

By Mambrino I'll smite off his head.

"On the point of his nose, which was like

a red rose,

Was a wart of enormous size; And he made a great vapering with a blue and white apron,

And red stockings roll'd up to his thighs.* "Thou liest, thou liest, young Johnny Strap, It is all a fib you tell,

For the butcher was taken, as dead as bacon,
From the bottom of Carisbrook well.

"My master attend, and I'll be your friend,
I dont value madam a button;
But I heard Mistress say, dont leave, I pray,
Sweet Timothy Slaughter-mutton.

He oped the shop door, the counter he jump'd o'er,

And overturned Strap,

Mrs Gossip blush'd,and her cheek was flush'd,
But the barber shook his head;
And having observ'd that the night was cold,
He tumbled into bed.

Mrs Gossip lay and mourn'd, and Dicky toss'd and turn'd;

And he mutter'd while half a-sleep, The stone is large and round, and the halter tight and sound,

And the well thirty fathom deep.

The gloomy dome of St Paul's struck three,
The morning began to blink,
And Gossip slept, as if his wife

Had put laudanum in his drink.

Mrs Gossip drew wide the curtains aside,
The candle had burn'd to the socket,
And lo! Timothy stood, all cover'd with
blood,

With his right hand in his pocket. "Dear Slaughter-mutton, away," she cried, "I pray thee do not stop""Mrs Gossip, I know, who sleeps by thy side,

But he sleeps as sound as a top.
"Near Carisbrook well I lately fell
Beneath a barber's knife;

The coroner's inquest was held on me-
But it did not restore me to life.

"By thy husband's hand, was I foully slain,
He threw me into the well,
And my sprite in the shop, in Cleaver-lane,
For a season is doom'd to dwell."—

Love master'd fear-what brings thee here?
The Love-sick matron said,—
"Is thy fair carcase gone to pot" ?-
The goblin shook his head.
"I slaughter'd sheep, and slaughter'd was,
And for breaking the marriage band,
My flesh and bones go to David Jonest—
But let us first shake hands.

He laid his left fist, on an oaken chest,
And, as she cried-" dont burn us";

his lady fair,

With the Kitten on her lap.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright,

Now hail, thou barber trim,

What news from Canterbury fight,
What news from bloody Jem.†

"Canterbury is red with gore,
For many a barber fell;

And the mayor has charg'd us for evermore, To watch the butcher's well.".

This was no doubt a bold and masterly

And scorch'd her like a furnace.

There is a felon in Newgate jail,
Who dreads the next assize;

A woman doth dwell, in Bedlam cell,
With a patch between her eyes.
The woman who dwells in Bedlam cell,
Whose reason is not worth a button,
Is the wife of the barber in Newgate jail,
Who slaughter' Slaughter-mutton.

It seems to us an unconscionable ex

breeches.

It is astonishing that Hume and other historians make no mention of this bloody encounter, which threatened to exterminate the whole shaving generation; or, at least, scatter them like the twelve tribes of Israel.

the coroner was to restore the "vis vitæ."

+ Apparently one of the slang names for the "hangman of creation," omitted by Burns in his address to that celebrated personage