A

PARODY

ON

“MARY’s GHOST;”

OR,

The Doctors

AND

BODY-SNATCHERS.

A

Pathetic Tale,

WITH

Numerous Additions

NORWICH;

Printed by Christopher Berry, Chettleburgh’s Court, Rampant
Horse Street, St. Stephen’s.




A PARODY

ON

“MARY’S GHOST.”


     “’Twas in the middle of the night,
       To sleep Young William tried;
     When Mary’s Ghost came stealing in,
       And stood at his bed-side.”

     “O William dear! O William dear!
       My rest eternal ceases;
     Alas! my everlasting peace,
       Is broken into pieces.”

     “I thought the last of all my cares,
       Would end with my last minute;
     But though I went to my _long_ home,
       I did not stay _long_ in it.”

     “The body-snatchers they have come,
       And made a snatch at me;
     It’s very hard them kind of men,
       Won’t let a body be.”

     You thought that I was buried deep,
       Quite decent to the eye;
     With roses growing o’er my grave,
       In _Dr-mm-nd’s Rosary_.

     But William dear, my rest was short,
       It was not very chary;
     Them boney-men, they did march in,
       And bone away your Mary.

     I wish you’d speak to Mr. D.
       Who owes the _patent_ ground;
     And tell him that his _patent_ graves,
       Are neither safe nor sound.

     I vow that his _new_ land-of-tombs,
       Made so genteel and pretty;
     Is not a bit more safer than,
       _Old_ Tombland in the City.

     Alas! it is a joint-stock-thing,
       The shares are down so _low_;
     E’re long they’ll break up all the _banks_,
       Of _Dr-mm-nd, Son & Co._

     My tender body was pack’d-up,
       And in a sack did go;
     To be a _little_ body at,
       _Sir Dalley’s_ great depôt.

     I was cut up as _Stratford_ was,
       And _Y-ll-ly_ from Carrow;
     Came stealing in--and stole away,
       My brains and spinal-marrow.

     I vow’d that you should have my hand,
       But fate gives us denial;
     You’ll find it there at Doctor _Wr-ght’s_,
       In spirits and a phial.

     How very hard my William dear,--
       How very hard the loss is;
     That both my legs should have to walk,
       The Surgery at _Cr-ss’s_.

     And that my arms,--the tender arms,
       That now in death do part us;
     Should both of them be taken down,
       To dwell at Doctor _C-rt-r’s_.

     As for my eyes,--the lovely eyes,
       That once beam’d from their sockets;
     You’ll find them both at Mr. _H-ll’s_,
       In his _large_ breeches-pockets.

     My very skull was lent to _St-rk_,
       Without any apology;
     And all my lumps and bumps he found,
       That are in Craniology.

     But when my skull came back from St-rk,
       That clever _organ-finder_;
     It was found out that _Cr-wc--r_ had,
       Pluck’d out--every grinder.

     As for my feet,--the little feet,
       You used to call so pretty;
     There’s one I know at the _Town-close_,
       The t’other’s in the _city_.

     The _Pupils_ dear, them sweet young men,
       I vow they wrote on vellum;
     A letter to the Doctors _big_,
       And got my cerebellum.

     As for my hair--the auburn hair,
       You used to love so well;
     Alas! it’s gone to deck the head,
       Of _lovely Mrs. B-ll_.

     My very liver and my lungs,
       E’en them were not forgot;
     But given to them cruel men,
       _Long J-hns-n_ and _Page Sc-tt_.

     I thought I should have lost a rib,
       And many other stores;
     But Doctor _Ev-ns_ took instead,
       A _rib_ from Brazen-doors.

     To say where my soft kidneys are,
       The _Newspapers_ will tell;
     Therefore you need not ring at night,
       At “Doctor _Engl-nd’s_ Bell.”

     To boil me down--did Doctor _Pure_,
       _Affirm_ ’twould be a sin;
     And then Old _J-rv-s_ wink’d his eye,
       And _swore_ he’d tan my skin.

     I can’t tell where my head is gone,
       But _M-lls_ and _N-ch-ls_ can;
     Also my trunk which is to go,
       By _M-n-ym-nt’s_ night-van.

     I wish you’d go to Mr. M.
       And save me such a ride;
     “I don’t half like the _outside_ place,
       They’ve took for my _inside_.”

     “The cock it crows--I must be gone!
       My William we must part!
     But I’ll be yours in death--altho’
       _Sweet N-rg-te_ has my heart.”

     “Don’t go to weep upon my grave,
       And think that there I be;
     They hav’n’t left an atom there,
       Of my _anatomie_.”


_BERRY, PRINTER, NORWICH_