By many a cell they past,
    And stopped at length before
  A portal, bolted fast: 
    The man unlocked the door.

  He called inside the gate
    With coarse and brutal shout,
  “Come, step it, Forty-eight!”
    And Forty-eight stepped out.

  “They gets it pretty hot,
    The maidens what we cotch—­
  Two years this lady’s got
    For collaring a wotch.”

  “Oh, ah!—­indeed—­I see,”
    The troubadour exclaimed—­
  “If I may make so free,
    How is this castle named?”

  The warden’s eyelids fill,
    And sighing, he replied,
  “Of gloomy Pentonville
    This is the female side!”

  The minstrel did not wait
    The warden stout to thank,
  But recollected straight
    He’d business at the Bank.

THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT.

  Lord B. was a nobleman bold,
    Who came of illustrious stocks,
  He was thirty or forty years old,
    And several feet in his socks.

  To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea
    This elegant nobleman went,
  For that was a borough that he
    Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.

  At local assemblies he danced
    Until he felt thoroughly ill—­
  He waltzed, and he galloped, and lanced,
    And threaded the mazy quadrille.

  The maidens of Turniptopville
    Were simple—­ingenuous—­pure—­
  And they all worked away with a will
    The nobleman’s heart to secure.

  Two maidens all others beyond
    Imagined their chances looked well—­
  The one was the lively Ann Pond,
    The other sad Mary Morell.

  Ann Pond had determined to try
    And carry the Earl with a rush. 
  Her principal feature was eye,
    Her greatest accomplishment—­gush.

  And Mary chose this for her play,
    Whenever he looked in her eye
  She’d blush and turn quickly away,
    And flitter and flutter and sigh.

  It was noticed he constantly sighed
    As she worked out the scheme she had planned—­
  A fact he endeavored to hide
    With his aristocratical hand.

  Old Pond was a farmer, they say,
   And so was old Tommy Morell,
  In a humble and pottering way
    They were doing exceedingly well.

  They both of them carried by vote
    The Earl was a dangerous man,
  So nervously clearing his throat,
    One morning old Tommy began: 

  “My darter’s no pratty young doll—­
    I’m a plain-spoken Zommerzet man—­
  Now what do ’ee mean by my Poll,
    And what do ’ee mean by his Ann?”

  Said B., “I will give you my bond
    I mean them uncommonly well,
  Believe me, my excellent Pond,
    And credit me, worthy Morell.

  “It’s quite indisputable, for
    I’ll prove it with singular ease,
  You shall have it in ‘Barbara’ or
    ’Celarent’—­whichever you please.