A Very Serious Ballad.

“I’ll be your second.”— LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago,

There lived one Mr. Brown;

And many folks considered him

The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out —

One Friday he died hard,

And left a widow’d wife to mourn,

At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months

Thought mourning quite a tax;

And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,

To manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;

The thing came thus about:

She asked him in at home, and then

At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man

In ashes could not stand;

So like a Phoenix he rose up

Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite

Appeared before her view;

It came a little after one,

But she was after two!

“O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.!

Are these your sorrow’s deeds,

Already getting up a flame,

To burn your widows’ weeds?

“It’s not so long since I have left

For aye the mortal scene;

My memory — like............