Dr. Oliver Goldsmith

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word--

From those

who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor--

Who left

a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning;

And never follow'd wicked ways--

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew--

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow'd her--

When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short-all: The Doctors found, when she was dead, Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,-- She had not died to-day.

THE GREAT PANJANDRUM HIMSELF

So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf

to make

an apple-pie;

and at the same time a great she-bear, coming down the street, pops its head into the shop.

What! no soap?

So he died,

and she very imprudently married the Barber:

and there were present

the Picninnies, and the Joblillies,

and the Garyulies,

and the great Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top;

and they all fell to playing the game of catch-as-catch-can,

till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.