JOHN DAY, A PATHETIC BALLAD. 89 



Alas ! in vain he still assailed, 



Her heart withstood the dint ; 

 Although he carried sixteen stone 



He could not move a flint. 



Worn out at last, he made a vow 



To break his being's link ; 

 For he was so reduced in size 



At nothing he could shrink. 



Now some will talk in water's praise, 



And waste a deal of breath, 

 But John, though he drank nothing else 



He drank himself to death. 



The cruel maid that caused his love 



Found out the fatal close ; 

 For looking in the butt, she saw 



The butt end of his woes. 



Some say his spirit haunts the ' Crown,' 



But that is only talk ; 

 For after riding all his life 



His ghost objects to walk. 



