. The book of ballads . em wink so knowingly at thee!Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am wild,Jhat a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child,They say my bowie knife is keen to sliver into halvesThe camiss of my enemy, as butchers slay their say that I am .stem of mood, because, like salted beef,I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked liim j)rime tariff;Heciiuse I thougrht to palm him on simple-souled John Bull;And dear a .-^mall per centage on the sale at Liverj)Ool;It may be so, I do not know—these things, perhaps, may be ;Hut surely I have always
. The book of ballads . em wink so knowingly at thee!Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I am wild,Jhat a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child,They say my bowie knife is keen to sliver into halvesThe camiss of my enemy, as butchers slay their say that I am .stem of mood, because, like salted beef,I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked liim j)rime tariff;Heciiuse I thougrht to palm him on simple-souled John Bull;And dear a .-^mall per centage on the sale at Liverj)Ool;It may be so, I do not know—these things, perhaps, may be ;Hut surely I have always been a g-entleman to thee !Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours,—Xay, sheriff, never hjok tliy watch—I g-uess there s grood two ]] shut the ])rison doors and keep the g-apingr world at bay,Ior love is long- as tamity, thoug-h I must die to-day! STREAK THE SECOND. T)ie clock is ticking onwardTowards the hour of doom, And no one yet hath enteredInto that g-hastly room. ~%^.i ^ ^^^-^^. if The gaoler and the sheriff They are walking- to and fro;And the hang-man sits upon the steps, And smokes his pipe grisly expectation The prison all is bound,And save expectoration, You cannot hear a turnkey stands and ponders, His hand upon the bolt,— In twenty minutes more, I g-uess, T will all be up with Coh!But see, the door is opened, Forth comes the weeping bride ;The courteous sheriff hfts his hat. And saunters to her side,— I beg your pardon, Mrs. C, But is your husband ready 1 I guess you d better ask himself, Rephed the woeful lady. 37 t^ m The clock is ticking- minutes almost run, The hangmans pipe is nearly out,?T is on the stroke of one. ^) o a 0 i m £ :J8 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 4 ,i^ I At every grated window Unshaven faces glare;Theres Puke, the judg-e of Tennessee, And LATich, of Delaware;And Batter, with the long- black beard, Whom Hartfords maids know well;And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach, The pride of New
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