The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

184
The bells rung out a triple bob:
Oh, how our widow's heart did throb,
And thus she heard their burden go,
"Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"
Bells were not then left to hang idle:
A week,--and they rang for her bridal
But, woe the while, they might as well
Have rung the poor dame's parting knell.
The rosy dimples left her cheek.
She lost her beauties plump and sleek,
For Guillot oftener kick'd than kiss'd,
And back'd his orders with his fist,
Proving by deeds as well as words,
That servants make the worst of lords.
She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,
And speaks as angry women speak,
With tiger looks, and bosom swelling,
Cursing the hour she took his telling.
To all, his calm reply was this,--
"I fear you've read the bells amiss,
If they have led you wrong in aught,
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought,
Just go, and mark well what they say."
Off trudged the dame upon her way,
And sure enough the chime went so,--
"Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"
"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt:
What could my ears have been about!"
She had forgot, that, as fools think,
The bell is ever sure to clink.
THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.
W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The noble king of Brentford
Was old and very sick;