Gerard Douw,
And the Suffolk Gallery will not do—­it’s not a Suffolk Cow: 
I wish you’d seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals
Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to heels: 
His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby,
He hardly whipped the boys at all,—­or helped to nurse the babby,
And when he had her all complete and painted over red,
He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head. 
Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow,
Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow. 
And if it’s inconvenient and drawn too big by half—­
David shan’t send next year except a very little calf!”

LINES TO MARY.

OLD BAILEY BALLADS.

    (At No. 1, Newgate.  Favored by Mr. Wontner.)

O Mary, I believed you true,
  And I was blest in so believing;
But till this hour I never knew—­
  That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch’d a tender kiss,
  Or some such trifle when I courted,
You said, indeed, that love was bliss,
  But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face—­
  It would have been an unfair feeling
To dream that you had pilfered lace—­
  And Flint’s had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferred,
  To bring your coldness to repentance,
Before I hammer’d out a word,
  How could I dream you heard a sentence!

Or when with all the warmth of youth
  I strove to prove my love no fiction,
How could I guess I urged a truth
  On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part,
  Your hand—­where I have look’d and linger’d,
Altho’ it stole away my heart,
  Had been held up as one light-fingered!

In melting verse your charms I drew,
  The charms in which my muse delighted—­
Alas! the lay I thought was new. 
  Spoke only what had been indicted!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,
  Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,
I little thought that you had run
  A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick’d me from the world,
  My vanity it now must shock it—­
And down at once my pride is hurled,
  You’ve pick’d me—­and you’ve pick’d a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far,
  The banns were read by Doctor Daly,
Who asked if there was any bar—­
  Why did not some one shout “Old Bailey”?

But when you robed your flesh and bones
  In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
  Among the Joans that link with Darbies?

And when the parson came to say,
  My goods were yours, if I had got any,
And you should honor and obey,
  Who could have thought—­“O Bay of Botany!”