Two bagmen, who sat on the box, jumped together
And found a soft bed in the mud of the drain;
The barmaid from Murphy’s fell light as a feather—
I think she got off with a bit of a sprain;
While the jock, with his nerves most decidedly shaken,
Made straight for the door, never wasting his breath
In farewell apologies: basely forsaken,
My wife and Poll Brown sat alone with grim Death.
While the coach thundered downward, my wife fell a-praying;
But Poll in a fix, now, is dashed hard to beat:
She picked up her skirts, scrambled over the swaying
High roof of the coach, till she lit on the seat,
And there looked around. In her hand was a pretty,
Frail thing made of laces, with which a girl strives
To save her complexion when down in the city—
A lace parasol! yet it saved both their lives.
Oh, Polly was game, you may bet your last dollar!
She leans on the splashboard, and stretches and strains
With her parasol, down by the off-sider’s collar,
Until she contrives to catch hold of the reins.
