The bolt it fell,--a jerk, a strain!
The sheriff's fled asunder;
The faking-boy ne'er spoke again,
For they pulled his legs from under.
And there he dangles on the tree,
That sort of love and bravery!
Oh, that such men should victims be
Of law, and law's vile knavery.
[1: pickpocket; gallows]
[2: gallows]
[3: blast my eyes!]
THE NUTTY BLOWEN [Notes]
[1841]
[By BON GAULTIER in _Taits Edinburgh Magazine_].
I
She wore a rouge like roses, the night when first we met,
Her lovely mug was smiling o'er mugs of heavy wet; [1]
Her red lips had the fullness, her voice the husky tone,
That told her drink was of a kind where water is unknown.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With the bloom of borrowed flowers upon her cheek and brow.