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She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at

the door,

She gazed horribly eager around,

Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more,

And exhausted and breathless she sunk on

the floor,

Unable to utter a sound.

Ere

yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view ;Her eyes from that object convulsively

start,

For-O God! what cold horror then thrilled

through her heart

When the name of her Richard she knew!

F

Where the old abbey stands on the common

hard by,

His gibbet is now to be seen:

His irons you still from the road may espy, The traveller beholds them and thinks with

Of

a sigh,

poor Mary the maid of the inn.

MARY'S GHOST.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

By T. HOOD.

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bed-side.

O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But tho' I went to my long home,
I didn't stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have 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 vow'd that you should have my hand, But fate gives us denial;

You'll find it there, at Doctor 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.

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