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One marvel follows another as naturally as one "shoulder of mutton" is said "to drive another down." A little Welsh girl, who sometimes makes her way from the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such authority, I shall call—

PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY

"LOOK AT THE CLOCK!"

fytte i

"Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce,
As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,
Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,
          "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!
               Is this the way, you
               Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?—
               Out all night!
               Me in a fright;
Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute!—you insensible block!—
Look at the Clock!—Do!—Look at the Clock!"

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket holes;
               A face like a ferret
               Betoken'd her spirit:
To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

               Now David Pryce
               Had one darling vice;
Remarkably partial to anything nice,
Nought that was good to him came amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss!
               Especially ale—
               If it was not too stale
I really believe he'd have emptied the pail;
               Not that in Wales
               They talk of their Ales;
To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you,
Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.

               That particular day,
               As I've heard people say,
Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay.
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots,
               With a couple more soakers,
               Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;
And, long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,
They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos";
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!
               What have we with day to do?
               Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!"—
At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,
Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door:
               And then came that knock,
               And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan,
And often, among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out.
               Pryce would drop a cool hint.
               With an ominous squint
At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout."
               That horrid word "Spout"
               No sooner came out
Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
               And with scorn on her lip,
               And a hand on each hip,
"Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip,
               "You thundering Willin,
               I know you'd be killing
Your wife,—ay, a dozen of wives,—for a shilling!
               You may do what you please,
               May may sell my chemise,
(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,)
But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!"

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast;
But patience is apt to wear out at last,
And David Pryce in temper was quick,
So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then wasn't very convenient,
               So he threw it, instead,
               Direct at her head;
               It knock'd off her hat;
               Down she fell flat;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
But whatever it was,—whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,
Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain,—but this I can,
When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!

               The fearful catastrophe
               Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality,
Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality.
And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.
               Mr. Pryce to commence
               His "ingenious defence,"
Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense,"
               "The world he must defy
               Ever to justify
Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense';"—
               The unlucky lick
               From the end of his stick
He "deplored,"—he was "apt to be rather too quick;"—
               But, really, her prating
               Was so aggravating:
Some trifling correction was just what he meant;—all
The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"

               Then he calls Mr. Jones,
               Who depones to her tones,
And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones."
While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys
               Declared the Deceased
               Had styled him "a Beast,"
And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,
The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy,
Return'd about half-past eleven at night
The following verdict, "We find, Sarve her right!"

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moded; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moded; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

               Not far from his dwelling,
               From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain; its name you'll excuse me from telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;
And the duty, of course, falls heavier by far,
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.
               The first syllable "Pen,"
               Is pronounceable;—then
Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N;
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "Pen."

               Well—the moon shone bright
               Upon "Pen" that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
               Was scaling its side
               With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride.
               Mounting higher and higher,
               He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
               And feeling opprest
               By a pain in his chest,
He paus'd, and turn'd round to take a breath, and to rest,
A walk all up hill is apt, we know,
To make one, however robust, puff and blow,
So he stopp'd and look'd down on the valley below.

               O'er fell and o'er fen,
               Over mountain and glen,
All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then
All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught
               Of her Heroes of old,
               So brave and so bold,—
Of her Bards with long bears, and harps mounted in gold;
               Of King Edward the First,
               Of memory accurst;
And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,
               Killing Poets by dozens,
               With their uncles and cousins,
Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved—
Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lapl
               And how Mr. Tudor
               Successfully woo'd her,
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in-law to the King.