Now the Duchess's page, About twelve years of age,
For so little a boy was remarkably sage;
And, just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,
Popp'd the gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement.
But all would not do,--Though St. Megrin got through
The window,--below stood De Guise and his crew.
And though never man was more brave than St. Megrin,
Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing;
He thrust _carte_ and _tierce_ Uncommonly fierce,
But not Beelzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce:
While his doublet and hose, Being holiday clothes,
Were soon cut through and through from his knees to his nose.
Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjurer gave him,
From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him,
But, when beat on his knees, That confounded De Guise
Came behind with the "fogle" that caused all this breeze,
Whipp'd it tight round his neck, and, when backward he'd jerk'd him,
The rest of the rascals jump'd on him and Burked him.
The poor little page, too, himself got no quarter, but
Was served the same way, And was found the next day
With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt;

Catherine of Cleves Roar'd "Murder!" and "Thieves!"
From the window above While they murder'd her love;
Till, finding the rogues had accomplish'd his slaughter,
She drank Prussic acid without any water,
And died like a Duke-and-a-Duchess's daughter!


CHATTER OF A DILETTANTE