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114 This doom he can't defy, However he may try, For should he stay His hand, that day In torture he shall die!"

The prophecy came true: Each heir who held the title Had, every day, to do Some crime of import vital; Until, with guilt o'erplied, "I'll Sin no more!" he cried, And on the day He said that say, In agony he died!

And thus, with sinning cloyed, Has died each Murgatroyd, And so shall fall, Both one and all, Each coming Murgatroyd!

Whither away, dear Rose? On some errand of charity, as is thy wont?

A few gifts, dear aunt, for deserving villagers. Lo, here is some peppermint rock for old gaffer Gadderby, a set of false teeth for pretty little Ruth Rowbottom, and a pound of snuff for the poor orphan girl on the hill.

Ah, Rose, pity that so much goodness should not help to make some gallant youth happy for life! Rose, why dost thou harden that little heart of thine? Is there none hereaway whom thou couldst love?