With fearless good humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent.

The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky
She shiver'd with cold as she went.

C'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight.

Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howl'd dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gather'd the bough;

When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear:
She paused, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen'd,-naught else could she hear.

The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with

dread,

For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there :

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdled cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by,-

It blew off the hat of the one, and behold
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd-
She felt, and expected to die.

"Curse the hat!" he exclaimed; "Nay, come on here,

and hide

The dead body," his comrade replied.

She beholds them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,
And fast through the Abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,
She gazed horribly eager around,

Then her limbs could support their faint burden 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 thrill'd through her heart

When the name of her Richard she knew!

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 a sigh, Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.

A "PENNY READINGS" PROlogue.

WILLIAM GASPEY.

To add a zest to home delights,
To occupy long winter nights

With profit and with pleasure;
To call together friend and neighbour,
When evening, respite brings to labour,
And sacred is to leisure,

Are the chief aims we have in view,
While introducing something new
Which needs no special pleadings,
Since by your presence may be traced
That in accordance with
your taste
Are these, our Penny Readings.

We'll do our best-who more can do?
To render welcome unto you

Of dawning thought this movement,
And hope so well to act our parts,
That you'll pronounce it, in your hearts,
Of time a vast improvement.

The programme's contents will declare
How versatile the bill of fare

66

Of this, our feast of reason,”

Where nothing on you will be pressed
You cannot "inwardly digest,"
Quite sure it is in season.

Tale, legend, poem, jeu d'esprit,
Before you will recited be,
In fashion histrionic,

And music, too, will lend its aid
(Songs warbled, dulcet strains be played)
To make the night harmonic.

As critics, do not worthless deem
Efforts which may unfinished seem,
And void of inspiration ;-
Remember we are Volunteers-
Extend our hopes, abate our fears,
And smile your approbation.

Sustained by you, what we have planned,
The palm of triumph will command,

Our object many heeding;
And goodly companies, ere long,
From town and villages will throng
To every Penny Reading!

160

VAT YOU PLEASE.

J. R. PLANCHÉ.

SOME years ago, when civil faction
Raged like a fury through the fields of Gaul,
And children, in the general distraction,

Were taught to curse as soon as they could squall;
When common-sense in common folks was dead,
And murder show'd a love of nationality,
And France, determined not to have a head,
Decapitated all the higher class,

To put folks more on an equality;

When coronets were not worth half-a-crown,
And liberty, in bonnet-rouge, might pass
For Mother Red-cap up at Camden Town;
Full many a Frenchman then took wing,
Bidding soup-maigre an abrupt farewell,
And hither came, pell-mell,

Sans cash, sans clothes, and almost sans everything!

Two Messieurs who about this time came over,

Half-starved, but toujours gai

(No weasels e'er were thinner),

Trudged up to town from Dover;

Their slender store exhausted in the way,
Extremely puzzled how to get a dinner.

From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve,
Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition;
Great was their need, and sorely did they grieve,
Stomach and pocket in the same condition!
At length by mutual consent they parted,
And different ways on the same errand started.

This happen'd on a day most dear

To epicures, when general use

Sanctions the roasting of the sav'ry goose.

Towards night, one Frenchman, at a tavern near,
Stopp'd, and beheld the glorious cheer;

While greedily he snuff'd the luscious gale in,
That from the kitchen window was exhaling.
He instant set to work his busy brain,

And snuff'd and long'd, and long'd and snuff'd again.
Necessity's the mother of invention,

(A proverb I've heard many mention);
So now one moment saw his plan completed,
And our sly Frenchman at a table seated.

The ready waiter at his elbow stands

66

Sir, will you favour me with your commands?

"We've roast and boil'd, sir; choose you those or these ?"

"Sare! you are very good, Sare! Vat you please."

Quick at the word,

Upon the table smokes the wish'd-for bird.
No time in talking did he waste,

But pounced pell-mell upon it;

Drum-stick and merry-thought he pick'd in haste, Exulting in the merry thought that won it. Pie follows goose, and after pie comes cheese"Stilton or Cheshire, Sir ?"" Ah! vat you please." And now our Frenchman, having ta'en his fill, Prepares to go, when-"Sir, your little bill." "Ah, vat you're Bill! Vell, Mr. Bill, good day! "Bon jour, good Villiam."-" No, Sir, stay; "My name is Tom, Sir-you've this bill to pay." "Pay, pay, ma foi !

"I call for noting, Sare-pardonnez-moi !

"You bring me vat you call your goose, your cheese,
"You ask-a-me to eat; I tell you, Vat you please!"
Down came the master, each explain'd the case,
The one with cursing, t'other with grimace;
But Boniface, who dearly loved a jest,
(Although sometimes he dearly paid for it),
And finding nothing could be done (you know,
That when a man has got no money,

To make him pay some would be rather funny),
Of a bad bargain made the best,