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, O William dear! O William dear! I thought the last of all my cares The body-snatchers they have come, It's very hard them kind of men You thought that I was buried deep, But from her grave in Mary-bone The arm that used to take your arm And both my legs are gone to walk 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 I wish you'd go to Mr. P. I don't half like the outside place, my inside. The cock it crows-I must be gone; |