The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

647
IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiL
FroB her a scorLful frowL,
But sooL as I By prayers begiL,
She cries O Lo! begoLe,
Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLg
Is Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe!
By Bary ALLe is like the mooL,
WheL first her silver sheeL
Awakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe,
That else had sileLt beeL.
But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light,
OL be, alas! looks dowL;
Her sBiles oL others beaB their light,
Her frowLs are all By owL.
I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg--
Her frowLs are all By owL.
EPITAPH ON A CANDLE.
PUNCH.
A WICKED one lies buried here,
Who died in a DECLINE;
He never rose in rank, I fear,
Though he was born to SHINE.
He once was FAT, but now, indeed,
He's thin as any griever;
He died--the Doctors all agreed,
Of a most BURNING fever.
One thing of him is said with truth,
With which I'm much amused;
It is--that when he stood, forsooth,
A STICK he always used.
Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made,
But this was not enough,