BETSY BROWN.

A TRUE STORY.*

ALL must have heard of MRS BROWN,
Who kept the old " Cod's Head Hotel,"

Close to tide-mark in TANGLETOWN,

Where brightest sea-nymphs love to dwell:
For in her house, time out of mind,

Men fond of fish and frolic dined.

And no one, surely, can forget

How fishes there of every fin,
Rushing to table from the net,

Strove, in all shapes, our smiles to win;
Some holding in strange mouths strange tails,
Like minnows some, and some like whales.

But 'tis not of the fishes there

That we would speak-my muse and I;

*This story, in all essential points, is, we believe, strictly and literally true; and it will probably be thought by most of our readers that it affords a confirmation of the common saying, that "truth is stranger than fiction." It may perhaps be proper to add, for the sake of some of our readers, that Tangletown has probably taken its name from the abundance on its shore of that kind of sea-weed often called Tangle.-ED. B. M.

For them we have no time to spare-
In fact, we've "other fish to fry:
We've doings there most strange to show
Of him of ever-bended bow.

Good Mrs Brown had daughters twain--
Such daughters as you oft may see,
At least may look for not in vain,
At bar of thriving hostelry:
Fine rosy women-rather stout--
Better with head-gear than without.

Were we to say they were not young,
More than was meant we might express:
They were- -in a politer tongue-
Not in their première jeunesse;
Yet buxom, blooming women still,
Killing all round, but hard to kill.

BETSY, the eldest-and of her

It is that we are now to speakWas, if we do not greatly err,

Not of a temper the most meek: This was, perhaps, the reason why She had not brook'd the marriage-tie.

But now at last arrived a day,

When, after some few perverse years, Our honest Betsy meant to pay

The minister all her arrears:

For from a neighb'ring town there came
A gallant sergeant, JONES by name.

A likely fellow was this Jones

Six foot and more without his shoes:
Not with the rugged high cheek-bones
Of sergeant of the kilt or trews,
But with the round and ruddy face
That speaks of well-breech'd Saxon race.

He looked on Betsy-she on him—
And the thing was as good as done :
He, with such length and strength of limb,,
She, the whole reg'ment fit to stun :
Ere word was spoken you might swear
That words were not much needed there.

It was the oyster-time, and oft

To" The Cod's Head" Jones found his way; And there he loved with sawder soft

And shell-fish to beguile the day:

DANDO himself had hid his head,
To see the life the sergeant led.

It no doubt always seem'd most strange
To those who saw him in the bar,
That worthy Mrs Brown should change,
After the thing had gone so far;
But, though the reason still is hid,
Change she unquestionably did.

And Betsy scarce believes her ears,
When, just as Jones has "left" one day,
She, without word of warning, hears

Her mother in a mark'd tone say,
Betsy, no child of his and mine
Shall marry sergeant of the Line."

Says Betsy," This is rather late-
We've fix'd the day for Monday next."
But Mrs Brown was stern as fate,

Still holding to the self-same text :
No daughter of the old "Cod's Head"
Should ever with a sergeant wed!

And when the sergeant came next day,
Instead of oysters, as before,

He found, to his no small dismay,
Only the outside of the door :

For Mrs Brown, who "knew her place,"
Shut the old "Cod's Head" in his face.

What only men like Jones can know :
He look'd on her by morning sun,
And in the ev'ning they were ONE.

Swift the next morning speeds the news
To "The Cod's Head"--and all that day,
Though food she might not quite refuse,
Betsy was in a dreadful way;
And oft she cried, and stoutly too,
"Oh, mother, mother, this is you!"

Good Mrs Brown, what could she say?
No doubt she was right glad at heart,
Yet she spoke little through the day,
And doubly plied each household art;
But evening came, and then she said,
"Oh, Betsy, Betsy, go to bed!"

These were the words the mother said:

They're Betsy's clothes--what does it mean?
Naked by night, she has gone out-
She has gone out-it is too clear-
And thrown herself from off the pier!

And well may some folks now recall
Those words of hers the night before:
For now, of course, to one and all
Their real, dreadful sense they bore:
The bed that was her bed to be,
Was at the bottom of the sea!

Hard things are said of Mrs Brown,
Ev'n by her sister, MRS SNODY:
But the chief thought throughout the town,
Is now the finding of THE BODY:
And boats are searching all around,
And no doubt it will soon be found.

For days they search, both far and near,
But still the search is all in vain :
"NO-BODY," boatmen say, "is here,
'Tis useless quite to search again :
The tide was strong, and it may be,
Many and many a mile at sea.'

But now a certain SIMON SNIPE
Call'd to inquire for Mrs Brown:
A little man, of judgment ripe,
The oracle of Tangletown:

A man who might be said to bring
His beak to bear on ev'rything.

Snipe with the little servant-maid

Of" The Cod's Head" some converse had;

And she, poor SUSAN, sobbing, said,
"Oh, Mr Snipe, it's very sad!

It really oversets me quite-
I saw Miss Betsy's ghost last night!"

Simon a ghost had never seen

But thought, in his peculiar way,
"If through the night it here has been,
It can't be far off through the day :'
And then he sniff'd about, and said,
"Have you look'd into that press-bed?"

Behind the mangle was that bed-
Behind the mangle, in the wall;
And it had enter'd no one's head
Ever to think of it at all;

But there seem'd something in the air
That said to Snipe, "The ghost is there."

And now, who will believe my tale?

Snipe opens wide the press-bed door, And forth there comes, of cheese and ale, Fragrance that bed ne'er knew before; And there is Betsy, safe and soundThere, there she is-the body's found!

And what said Betsy? nothing more
Than we are now to tell to you:
She look'd out at the press-bed door,
And said to Snipe and little Sue,
"Have I not served my mother right?
Have I not given her a fright?"

Yet afterwards 'twas her delight,
Among her chosen friends, to tell
About the ghost that walk'd at night,
And stored its press-bed pantry well,
And saw the boats at break of day
Seeking its body in the bay!

Years now have pass'd; and many a change
We all have seen in all around;
But amidst things both new and strange,
The old "Cod's Head" may still be found:
Old-and old-fashion'd, if you will-
But there it is-"The Cod's Head" still.

And still, when passing by its door,

We sometimes feel as if the breeze

Upon its waving pinions bore

A SOMETHING as of ale and cheese, Still speaking of the old renown

Of THE PRESS-BED and BETSY BROWN!

A WORD ABOUT TOM JONES.