p shall be;
Yourself--if you only will make a
Voice in our ma-jo-rity--
We'll make you chief judge In Jamaica.
Tol, lol de rol, tol de rol lay!"

The mob chorus here broke in, and continued with such hearty enthusiasm
that I lost the entire of the next verse in the tumult.

"Your father, they say, is an ass,
And your mother not noted for knowledge;
But he 'll do very well at Madras,
And she shall be provost of college.
Your aunt, lady's-maid to the Queen;
And Bill, if he 'll give up his rakin',
And not drunk in daytime be seen,
I 'll make him a rosy archdeacon.
Tol, lol de rol, tol de rol lay!

"A jollier set ne'er was seen
Than you 'll be, when freed from your callin';
With an empty house in College Green,--
What an elegant place to play ball in!
Ould Foster stand by with his mace,
He 'll do mighty well for a marker;
John Toler--"

"Here 's the pollis!" said a gruff voice from the crowd; and the word
was repeated from mouth to mouth in every accent of fear and dread;
while in an instant all took to flighty--some dashing down obscure lanes
and narrow alleys, others running straight onwards towards Dame Street,
but all showing the evident apprehension they felt at the approach of
these dreaded officials. The ballad' singer alone did not move,--whether
too old or too infirm to trust to speed, or too much terrified to run, I
know not; but there she stood, the last cadence of her song still dying
on her lips, while the clattering sounds of men advancing rapidly were
heard in the distant street.

I know not why,--some strange momentary impulse, half pity, half
caprice, moved me to her rescue, and I called out to the sentry, "Let
that woman pass in!" She heard the words, and with an activity greater
than I could have expected, sprang into the barrack yard, while the
police passed eagerly on in vain pursuit of their victims.

I remained motionless in the window-seat, watching the now silent
street, when a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and there stood
the figure of the ballad-singer, her ragged cloak gathered closely
across her face with one hand, while with the other she held the bundle
of printed songs, her only stock-in-trade.

CHAPTER XIX. THE QUARREL

While I stood gazing at the uncouth and ragged figure before me, she
pushed rudely past,