Page:The Ingoldsby Legends (Frowde, 1905).pdf/95

 'You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife,—ay, a dozen of wives,—for a shilling! You may do what you please, May may sell my chemise, (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,) But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!'

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast; But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient, So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head; It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But whatever it was,—whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain,—but this I can, When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!

The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. Mr. Pryce to commence His 'ingenious defence,' Made a 'powerful appeal' to the jury's 'good sense,' 'The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense';'— The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He 'deplored,'—he was 'apt to be rather too quick;'— But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant;—all The rest, he assured them, was 'quite accidental!'

Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones,