He'd no time to say more,

For already the roar

Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door,
While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen,
Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline;

And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy,
She was stung by the spretœ injuria formæ.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride,
What she said to the ladies who stood by her side,
What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes,
Oh, nobody mentions-for nobody knows;

For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out,
And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout,
The rain kept on pouring,

The flood kept on roaring,

The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more ir ·
Ere the close of the day

All was clean wash'd away

One only survived who could hand down the news,
A little old woman that open'd the pews;

She was borne off, but stuck,

By the greatest good luck,

In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming,
And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in;
In vain, all the week,

Did the fishermen seek

For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek;
In vain was their search

After aught in the church,

They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch. The Humane Society

Tried a variety

Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tack'en But they only fished up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware
Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!
Shun playing at shorts-avoid quarrels and jars—
And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars!

-Let no run of bad-luck, or despair for soine Jewess-eyed Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide!

Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven

Be up in the morning by half after seven!

Keep from flirting-nor risk, warn'd by Rupert's miscarriage An action for breach of a promise of marriage;

Don't fancy odd fishes!

Don't prig silver dishes!

And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know,
BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"Look at the Clock !" quoth Winifred Pryce,
As she opened the door to her husband's knock,
Then paused to give him a piece of advice,
"You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!
Is this the way, you

Wretch, every day you

Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?—
Out all night!

Me in a fright!

Staggering home as it's just getting light!,
You intoxified brute!--you insensible block!—
Look at the Clock !-Do!-Look at the Clock!

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,

Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking-cans,

Her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;

Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,

Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket holes;

A face like a ferret

Betoken'd her spirit:

To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,

Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce

Had one darling vice;

Remarkably partial to any thing nice,

Nought that was good to him came amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink or to kiss!
Especially ale-

If it was not too stale

I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;
Not that in Wales

They talk of their Ales:

To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two R's, and a W.

That particular day,

As I've heard people say,

Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots,

With a couple more soakers,
Thoroughbred smokers,

Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;
And, long after day had drawn to a close,

And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,

They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;" While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,

Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!

What have we with day to do?

Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 't was made for you!"At length, when they could n't well drink any more, Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door:

And then came that knock,

And the sensible shock

David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock !"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three !

That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan:
And often, among their potner and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,

Pryce would drop a cool hint,

With an ominous squint

At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout."
That horrid word "Spout"

No sooner came out

Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
And with scorn on her lip,

And a hand on each hip,

"Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering Willin,

I know you'd be killing

Your wife,-ay, a dozen of wives,—for a shilling!
You may do what you please,

You may sell my chemise

(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock), But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock "'

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast,
But patience is apt to wear out at last,

And David Pryce in temper was quick,

So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick ;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then was n't very convenient,
So he threw it, instead,

Direct at her head;

It knock'd off her hat;

Down she fell flat;

Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
But whatever it was,-whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,

Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain,—but this I can,

When sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs Winifred Pryce was dead as Queen Anne!

The fatal catastrophe

Named in my last strophe

As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality,
Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality.
And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.

:

Mr. Pryce to commence

His "ingenious defense,”

Made a "powerful appeal" to the jy's "good sense," "The world he must defy

Ever to justify

Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;" "

The unlucky lick

From the end of his stick

He "deplored"—he was "apt to be rather too quick;”But, really, her prating

Was so aggravating:

Some trifling correction was just what he meant ;-all
The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"

Then he calls Mr. Jones,

Who depones to her tones,

And her gestures and hints about "breaking his bones." While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys

Declared the deceased

Had styled him "a Beast,"

And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,
The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy,
Return'd about half-past eleven at night

The following verdict, "We find, Sarve her right !"

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling,

From the vale proudly swelling,

Rose a mountain; it's name you'll excuse me from telling
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few

That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;

And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far,
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R,
Its first syllable "PEN,"

Is pronounceable;-then

Come two L L's, and two H H's, two F F's, and an N;