University of Virginia Library


148

THE SUICIDE IN DRURY-LANE.

(1856.)

Done!” the tired sexton said, and dug his spade
A foot deep in the plashy London clay.
“What's his name?—Mitchell. Oh, ah! cut his throat;
Shovel him in, of course, the usual way.
What was his age?—Eighteen. Why, what a fool!
O drat these nettles, how the beggars sting!
You haven't got a sixpence? When I've done,
An' O be joyful's what I always sing.
The Jolly Brewer's handy—so it is.
O curse this drizzle! how I reek and sweat!
The ground, you see's so greasy hereabout,
For we are over-crowded—three deep;—yet
I will be bound the parish would find room,
If one-third Leper-lane were to hop off.
Look at this skull, it's my old friend, the groom's.

149

No plumes you see to-night, I don't suppose,
Only a black box, and just half a prayer.
No one to cry and sob, or watch the dust
I fling, a dratting of the damp night air.
O Lord! this rheumatiz! damn suicides!
Don't they know wrong from right? Bah! cutting throats—
And costs the parish something, too, besides.”