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No. LI.

THE CINDER KING.

The following was sent me anonymously; the Reader will of course observe, that it is a burlesque imitation of the ballads of " the Erl-King," and "the Cloud-King."

"WHO is it that sits in the kitchen, and weeps, "While tick goes the clock, and the tabby-cat sleeps; "That watches the grate, without ceasing to spy, "Whether purses or coffins will out of it fly ?"—

'Tis Betty; who saw the false tailor, Bob Scott, Lead a bride to the altar; which bride she was not: 'Tis Betty; determined, love from her to fling, And woo, for his riches, the dark Cinder-King.

Now spent tallow-candle-grease fatten'd the soil,
And the blue-burning lamp had half wasted its oil,
And the black-beetle boldly came crawling from far,
And the red coals were sinking beneath the third bar;

When, "one" struck the clock-and instead of the bird
Who used to sing cuckoo whene'er the clock stirr'd,
Out burst a grim raven, and utter'd “caw! caw!”
While puss, though she 'woke, durst not put forth a claw.

Then the jack fell a-going as if one should

sup,

Then the hearth rock'd as though it would swallow one up; With fuel from hell, a strange coal-skuttle came,

And a self-handled poker made fearful the flame.

A cinder shot from it, of size to amaze,

(With a bounce, such as Betty ne'er heard in her days,) Thrice, serpent-like, hiss'd, as its heat fled away,

And lo! something dark in a vast coffin lay.

—" Come Betty!"—quoth croaking that non-descript thing, -"Come bless the fond arms of your true Cinder-king! "Three more Kings, my brothers, are waiting to greet ye, Who,-don't take it ill!-must at four o'clock eat ye.

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My darling! it must be, do make up your mind; "We element brothers, united, and kind,

“ Have a feast and a wedding, each night of our lives, "So constantly sup on each other's new wives."

Ee

In vain squall'd the cook-maid, and pray'd not to wed; Cinder craunch'd in her mouth, cinder rain'd on her head,

She sank in the coffin with cinders strewn o'er,

And coffin nor Betty saw man any more.

No. LII.

THE BLEEDING NUN.

I am not at liberty to publish the name of the author of this Ballad: it is founded on the fourth chapter of the Romance of " Ambrosio, or the Monk."

WHERE yon proud turrets crown the rock,

Seest thou a warrior stand?

He sighs to hear the castle clock
Say midnight is at hand.

It strikes, and now his lady fair
Comes tripping from her hall,
Her heart is rent by deep despair,
And tears in torrents fall.

"Ah! woe is me," my love, she cried,
“What anguish wrings my heart:

"Ah! woe is me," she said, and sigh'd,
"We must for ever part.

"Know, ere three days are past and flown, "(Tears choak the piteous tale!)

"A parents vow, till now unknown, "Devotes me to the veil."

-"Not so, my Agnes!" Raymond cried, "For leave thee will I never;

"Thou art mine, and I am thine,

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"Then quit thy cruel father's bower,

"And fly, my love, with me.".
"Ah! how can I escape his

"Or who can set me free.

power,

"I cannot leap yon wall so high, "Nor swim the fosse with thee;

"I can but wring my hands, and sigh

"That none can set me free.".

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