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ALL you that are too fond of wine,
Or any other stuff &
Take warning by the dismal fate
Of one Lieutenant Luff.
A sober man he might have been
Except in one regard—
He did not like soft water,
So he took to drinking hard.

Said he, let others fancy slops,
And talk in praise of tea,
ISut I am no Bohemian,
So do not like Bohea :
If wine 's a poison, so is tea,
Though in another shape;
What matter whether one is killed
By canister or grape 2

According to this kind of taste
Did he indulge his drouth,
And being fond of port, he made
A port-hole of his mouth !
A single pint he might have sipped
And not been out of sorts;
In geologic phrase, the rock
IIe split upon was quarts /

To hold the mirror up to vice
With him was hard, alas !
The worse for wine he often was,

But not before a glass.

No kind and prudent friend he had
To bid him drink no more;

The only chequers in his course
Were at a tavern door

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Full soon the sad effects of this
His frame began to show,
For that old enemy the gout
Had taken him in toe /
And joined with this an evil came
Of quite another sort,
For while he drank himself, his purse
Was getting “something short.”

For want of cash he soon had pawned
One half that he possessed ;
And drinking showed him duplicates
Beforehand of the rest.
So now his creditors resolved
To seize on his assets,
For why they found that his half pay
Did not half pay his debts.

But Luff contrived a novel mode
His creditors to chouse,
For his own execution he
Put into his own house !
A pistol to the muzzle charged,
He took devoid of fear;
Said he “this barrel is my last,
So now for my last bier.”

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,
And not against his brain;
So he blew out his lights, and none
Could blow them in again!
A jury for a verdict met,
And gave it in these terms:
“We find as how as certain slugs
Has sent him to the worms.”



AH me! what causes such complaining breath,
Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow 7
It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death,
For laying Laing low !
From Prospect House there comes a sound of wo—
A shrill and persevering loud lament,
Echoed by Mrs. T's Establishment
“For Six Young Ladies
In a retired and healthy part of Kent.”
All weeping, Mr. L gone down to Hades!
Thoughtful of grates, and convents, and the veil
Surrey takes up the tale,

* On the third inst. died in Springfield, near Gretna Green, David Laing, aged seventy-two, who had for thirty-five years officiated as high priest at Gretna Green. He caught cold on his way to Lancaster, to give evidence on the trial of the Wakefields, from the effects of which he never recovered.—Newspapers, July, 1827.

And all the nineteen Scholars of Miss Jones, With the two parlor-boarders and th’ apprentice— So universal this mistimed event is— Are joining sobs and groans ! The shock confounds all hymeneal planners, And drives the sweetest from their sweet behaviors: The girls at Manor House forget their manners, And utter sighs like paviors Down—down through Devon and the distant shires Travels the news of Death's remorseless crime; And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires Of matches against time !

Along the northern route
The road is water'd by postillion's eyes;
The topboot paces pensively about,
And yellow jackets are all stain'd with sighs;
There is a sound of grieving at the Ship,
And sorry hands are wringing at the Bell,
In aid of David’s knell.
The post-boys heart is cracking—not his whip !—
To gaze upon those useless empty collars
His wayworn horses seem so glad to slip—
And think upon the dollars
That used to urge his gallop—quicker quicker |
All hope is fled
For Laing is dead—
Vicar of Wakefield—Edward Gibbon's vicar !

The barristers shed tears—
Enough to feast a snipe (snipes live on suction)

To think in after years
No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction,

Nor knaves inveigle Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal; The dull reporters Look truly sad and seriously solemn, To lose the future column On Hymen Smithy and its fond resorters!— But grave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeau, That never real beau of flesh and blood Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chambaud.

Sleep—David Laing !—Sleep
In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee!
Over thy grave a thousand maidens weep,
And honest postboys mourn thee!
Sleep, David' safely and serenely sleep,
Bewept of many a learned legal eye l—
To see the mould above thee in a heap
Drowns many a lid that heretofore was dry !—
Especially of those that plunging deep,
In love, would “ride and tie s”—
Had I command, thou should'st have gone thy ways
In chaise and pair—and lain in Père la chaise !



A SORRY tale, of sorry plans,
Which this conclusion grants,
That Afghan clans had all the Khans,
And we had all the cants.

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