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‘Within the chambers of this tomb
Is laid, alas! poor Johnny Coomb.
Ye sons of Momus seek his bier,
There drop the tributary tear;
And mourn his fate, deprived of breath
By the deceitful wiles of Death.
Long had our hero mock’d his art,
And laugh’d to scorn his conqu’ring dart;
But Death, who for his conquest burn’d,
Resolved to leave no stone unturn’d.
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John got himself a suit of clothes—
Coat, waistcoat, breeches, shoes, and hose;
And, as he knew his jaws were thin,
Tied down his hat beneath his chin.
Thus furnish’d out from top to toe,
Like any other country beau,
He came to town—his station chose—
And lay at ambush at “The Rose.”*
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Have you not seen a spider fell
Rush rapid from his gloomy cell,
To seize some wretch, and then convey
Back to his den the trembling prey?
So Death ran out, and cross’d the street,
The object of his hate to meet.
“And what dost sell, old friend?” he cried;
“Why, nuts, my master,” John replied;
“Up with your copper, and I’ll call—
’Tis but a-ha’penny, hap how’t shall.”
Death says—“Well, friend, I’ll try my luck;”
And straightway out a ha’penny took.
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* A public house. |
| ORIGINAL—W. GIFFORD. | 117 |
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“Now, tell me, Johnny, what you’ll
call;”
“Why I’ll heads for’t, hap how’t shall.”
Then Death aloft the ha’penny threw;
And John, who kept it still in view,
And looking down with aspect sad,
Cried out—“’Tis tail, I vow to Gad.”
Death, who his every motion watch’d,
Now saw his time, and out he snatch’d
From underneath his coat a dart,
And stabb’d poor Johnny to the heart.
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