II.
Know ye the willow-tree, Whose gray leaves quiver, Whispering gloomily To yon pale river?
Lady, at eventide Wander not near it! They say its branches hide A sad lost spirit! Long by the willow-tree Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the gray water.
"Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?
Rouse thee, sir constable-- Rouse thee and look.
Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook." Once to the willow-tree A maid came fearful, Pale seemed her cheek to be, Her blue eye tearful.
Soon as she saw the tree, Her steps moved fleeter.
No one was there--ah me!-- No one to meet her! Vainly the constable Shouted and called her.
Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder.
Vainly he threw the net.
Never it hauled her! Quick beat her heart to hear The far bells' chime Toll from the chapel-tower The trysting-time.
But the red sun went down In golden flame, And though she looked around, Yet no one came! Mother beside the fire Sat, her night-cap in; Father in easychair, Gloomily napping; When at the window-sill Came a light tapping.
Presently came the night, Sadly to greet her,-- Moon in her silver light, Stars in their glitter.
Then sank the moon away Under the billow.
Still wept the maid alone-- There by the willow! And a pale countenance Looked through the casement.
Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her! Shrieking in an agony-- "Lor'! it's Elizar!" Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Hour after hour went on Tolling and tolling.
Long was the darkness, Lonely and stilly.
Shrill came the night wind, Piercing and chilly.
Yes, 'twas Elizabeth;-- Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl.
"Mother!" the loved one, Blushing, exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.
Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key! And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs.Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep." Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold.
Bleak peers the gray dawn Over the wold! Bleak over moor and stream Looks the gray dawn, Gray with dishevelled hair.
Still stands the willow there-- The maid is gone! Whether her pa and ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know.
Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night,-- Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.
Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany-- Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary; Sing we a litany, Wail we and weep we a wild miserere! MORAL.
Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the fiddlety, Maidens of England take caution by she! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key! Mr.George Fitz-Boodle gave his name to other narratives beyond his own _Confessions_.

A series of stories was carried on by him in _Fraser_, called _Men's Wives_, containing three; _Ravenwing_, _Mr.and Mrs.
Frank Berry_, and _Dennis Hoggarty's Wife_.

The first chapter in _Mr.
and Mrs.Frank Berry_ describes "The Fight at Slaughter House." Slaughter House, as Mr.Venables reminded us in the last chapter, was near Smithfield in London,--the school which afterwards became Grey Friars; and the fight between Biggs and Berry is the record of one which took place in the flesh when Thackeray was at the Charter House.

But Mr.
Fitz-Boodle's name was afterwards attached to a greater work than these, to a work so great that subsequent editors have thought him to be unworthy of the honour.

In the January number, 1844, of _Fraser's Magazine_, are commenced the _Memoirs of Barry Lyndon_, and the authorship is attributed to Mr.Fitz-Boodle.