Chapter XX: Canto II (3)

Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!
Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile,
Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear,
O dear!
It makes the blood curdle with fear!

The Maiden is gone by the glen,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She is gone by the glen and the wood--
It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring,
While her tresses are bound with a snood.
By the rood!
It's a thing that's not well understood!

The Maiden is stately and tall,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And stately she walks in her pride;
But the Young Mary-Anne Runs as fast as she can,
To o'ertake her, and walk by her side:
Though she chide--
She deems not her sister a bride!

But the Maiden is gone by the glen,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Mary-Anne she is gone by the lea;
She o'ertakes not her sister, It's clear she has miss'd her,
And cannot think where she can be!
Dear me!
"Ho! ho!--We shall see--we shall see!"

Mary-Anne is gone over the lea,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower;
But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail,
A deal more than a fair Lady's bower,
So sour
Its ugly grey walls seem to lour.

For the Barbican's massy and high,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the oak-door is heavy and brown,
And with iron it's plated And machecollated,
To pour boiling oil and lead down;
How you'd frown
Should a ladle-full fall on your crown!

The rock that it stands on is steep,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
To gain it one's forced for to creep;
The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long,
And the water runs all round the Keep;
At a peep
You can see that the Moat's very deep!

The Drawbridge is long, but it's down,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the Portcullis hangs in the air;
And no Warder is near With his horn and his spear,
To give notice when people come there.--
I declare
Mary-Anne has run into the square!

The oak-door is heavy and brown,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
But the oak-door is standing ajar,
And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair,
You seem tired, Miss, with running so far--
So you are--
With grown people you're scarce on a par!"

But the young Mary-Anne is _not_ tired,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She roams o'er your Tower by herself;
She runs through, very soon, Each boudoir and saloon,
And examines each closet and shelf,
Your pelf,
All your plate, and your china--and delf.

She looks at your Arras so fine,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
So rich, all description it mocks;
And she now and then pauses To gaze at the vases,
Your pictures, and or-molu clocks;
Every box,
Every cupboard, and drawer she unlocks.

She looks at the paintings so rare,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
That adorn every wall in your house;
Your _impayable_ pieces, Your Paul Veroneses,
Your Rembrandts, your Guidos, and Dows,
Moreland's Cows,
Claude's Landscapes,--and Landseer's Bow-wows.

She looks at your Statues so fine,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And mighty great notice she takes
Of your Niobe crying, Your Mirmillo dying,
Your Hercules strangling the snakes,--
How he shakes
The nasty great things as he wakes!

Your Laocoon, his serpents and boys,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She views with some little dismay;
A copy of that I can See in the Vatican,
Unless the Pope's sent it away,
As they say,
In the Globe, he intended last May.[41]

There's your Belvidere Phœbus, with which,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Mr. Milman says none other vies.
(His lines on Apollo Beat all the rest hollow,
And gained him the Newdigate prize.)
How the eyes
Seem watching the shaft as it flies!

There's a room full of satins and silks,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
There's a room full of velvets and lace,
There are drawers full of rings, And a thousand fine things,
And a splendid gold watch with a case
O'er its face,
Is in every room in the place.

There are forty fine rooms on a floor,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And every room fit for a Ball,
It's so gorgeous and rich, With so lofty a pitch,
And so long, and so broad, and so tall;
Yes, all,
Save the last one--and that's very small!

It boasts not stool, table, or chair,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
But _one_ Cabinet, costly and grand,
Which has little gold figures Of little gold Niggers,
With fishing-rods stuck in each hand.--
It's japann'd,
And it's placed on a splendid buhl stand.

It's hinges and clasps are of gold,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And of gold are its keyhole and key,
And the drawers within Have each a gold pin,
And they're number'd with 1, 2, and 3,
You may see
All the figures in gold filigree!

Number 1's full of emeralds green,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Number 2's full of diamond and pearl;
But what does she see In drawer Number 3
That makes all her senses to whirl,
Poor Girl!
And each lock of her hair to uncurl?--

Wedding Fingers are sweet pretty things,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
To salute them one eagerly strives,
When one kneels to "propose"--
It's another _quelque chose_
When cut off at the knuckles with knives
From our wives,
They are tied up in bunches of fives.

Yet there they lie, one, two, three, four!
~Bloudie Jacke~!
There lie they, five, six, seven, eight!
And by them, in rows, Like eight little Great-Toes,
To match in size, colour, and weight!
From their state,
It would seem they'd been sever'd of late.

Beside them are eight Wedding-rings,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the gold is as thin as a thread--
"Ho! ho!--She is mine--
This will make up the Nine!"--
Dear me! who those shocking words said?--
--She fled
To hide herself under the bed.

But, alas! there's no bed in the room,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And she peeps from the window on high;
Only fancy her fright And the terrible sight
Down below, which at once meets her eye!
"Oh My!!"
She half utter'd,--but stifled her cry.

For she saw it was You and your Man,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And she heard your unpleasant "Haw! haw!"
While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head,
O'er the bridge you were trying to draw,
As she saw--
A thing quite contra-ry to law!

Your man has got hold of her heels,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
~Bloudie Jacke!~ you've got hold of her hair!--
But nor ~Jacke~ nor his Man Can see young Mary-Anne,
She has hid herself under the stair,
And there
Is a horrid great Dog, I declare!

His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
He's a sad ugly cur for a pet;
He seems of the breed Of that "Billy," indeed,
Who used to kill rats for a bet;
--I forget
How many one morning he ate.

He has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And thigh-bones;--and, though it's so dim,
Yet it's plain to be seen
He has pick'd them quite clean,--
She expects to be torn limb from limb,
So grim
He looks at her--and she looks at him!

She has given him a bun and a roll,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She has given him a roll and a bun,
And a Shrewsbury cake, Of ~Pailin's~[42] own make,
Which she happened to take ere her run
She begun--
She'd been used to a luncheon at One.

It's "a pretty particular Fix,"
~Bloudie Jacke~!
--Above,--there's the Maiden that's dead;
Below--growling at her-- There's that Cannibal Cur,
Who at present is munching her bread,
Instead
Of her leg,--or her arm,--or her head.

It's "a pretty particular Fix,"
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She is caught like a mouse in a trap;--
Stay! there's something, I think,
That has slipp'd through a chink,
And fall'n, by a singular hap,
Slap,
Into poor little Mary-Anne's lap!

It's a very fine little gold ring,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout,
But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remain
On her frock--for Blood will not wash out;
I doubt
Salts of Lemon won't bring it about!

She has grasp'd that gold ring in her hand,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
In an instant she stands on the floor,
She makes but one bound O'er the back of the hound,
And a hop, skip, and jump to the door,
And she's o'er
The drawbridge she'd traversed before!

Her hair's floating loose in the breeze,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
For gone is her "bonnet of blue."
--Now the Barbican's past!-- Her legs "go it" as fast
As two drumsticks a-beating tattoo,
As they do
At Réveillie, Parade, or Review!

She has run into Shrewsbury town,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She has called out the Beadle and May'r,
And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police,
Till "Battle Field" swarms like a Fair,--
And see there!--
E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!!

There's a pretty to-do in your Tower,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
In your Tower there's a pretty to-do!
All the people of Shrewsbury Playing old gooseberry
With your choice bits of taste and _virtù_;
Each bijou
Is upset in their search after you!

They are playing the deuce with your things,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
There's your Cupid is broken in two,
And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses,
The "Antique" ones you bought of the Jew,
And the new
One, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud.

The CALLIPYGE'S injured behind,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
The DE MEDICI'S injured before;
And the ANADYOMENE 's injured in so many
Places, I think there's a score,
If not more,
Of her fingers and toes on the floor.

They are hunting you up stairs and down,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Every person to pass is forbid,
While they turn out the closets And all their deposits--
"There's the dust-hole--come lift up the lid!"--
So they did--
But they could not find where you were hid!

Ah! Ah!--they will have you at last,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
The chimneys to search they begin;--
They have found you at last!--
There you are, sticking fast,
With your knees doubled up to your chin,
Though you're thin!
--Dear me! what a mess you are in!--

What a terrible pickle you're in,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Why, your face is as black as your hat!
Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt!
And so is your point-lace cravat!
What a Flat
To seek such an asylum as that!

They can scarcely help laughing, I vow,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
In the midst of their turmoil and strife;
You're not fit to be seen!-- You look like Mr. Kean
In the play, where he murders his wife!--
On my life
You ought to be scraped with a knife!

They have pull'd you down flat on your back,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
They have pull'd you down flat on your back!
And they smack, and they thwack,
Till your "funny bones" crack,
As if you were stretched on the rack,
At each thwack!--
Good lack! what a savage attack!

They call for the Parliament Man,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the Hangman, the matter to clinch,
And they call for the Judge, But others cry "Fudge!--
Don't budge Mr. Calcraft,[43] an inch!
Mr. Lynch![44]
Will do very well at a pinch!"

It is useless to scuffle and cuff,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
It is useless to struggle and bite!
And to kick and to scratch!
You have met with your match,
And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight,
Despite
Your determined attempts "to shew fight."

They are pulling you all sorts of ways,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
They are twisting your right leg Nor-West,
And your left leg due South,
And your knee's in your mouth,
And your head is poked down on your breast,
And it's prest,
I protest, almost into your chest!

They have pulled off your arms and your legs,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
As the naughty boys serve the blue flies;
And they've torn from their sockets,
And put in their pockets
Your fingers and thumbs for a prize!
And your eyes
A Doctor has bottled--from Guy's.[45]

Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
They hew, and they hack, and they chop;
And, to finish the whole, They stick up a pole
In the place that's still called the "~Wylde Coppe~,"
And they pop
Your grim gory head on the top!

They have buried the fingers and toes,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Of the victims so lately your prey.
From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes,
"~Ladyes' fyngers~" they're called to this day;
--So they say,--
And you usually dig them in May.

What became of the dear little girl?
~Bloudie Jacke~!
What became of the young Mary-Anne?
Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid,
For she fancied that every Young Man
Had a plan
To trepan her like "poor Sister Fan!"

So they say she is now leading apes,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And mends Bachelors' small-clothes below;
The story is old, And has often been told,
But I cannot believe it is so--
No! No!
Depend on't the tale is "No Go!"

MORAL.

And now for the moral I'd fain,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
That young Ladies should draw from my pen,--
It's--"Don't take these flights Upon moon-shiny nights,
With gay, _harum-scarum_ young men,
Down a glen!--
You really can't trust one in ten!"

Let them think of your terrible Tower, ~Bloudie Jacke~; And don't let them liberties take, Whether Maidens or Spouses, In Bachelors' houses; Or, some time or another, they'll make A Mistake! And lose--more than a ~Shrewsberrie Cake~!!

FOOTNOTES:

[41] "The Pope is said--this fact is hardly credible--to have sold the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvidere to the Emperor of Russia for nine million of francs."--_Globe and Traveller._

[42] Oh, Pailin! Prince of cake-compounders! the mouth liquefies at thy very name--but there!

[43] Jehan de Ketche acted as Provost Marshal to the army of William the Conqueror, and received from that monarch a grant of the dignity of Hereditary Grand Functionary of England, together with a croft or "parcel of land," known by the name of the ~Old Bailie~, co. Middx., to be held by him, and the heirs general of his body, in Grand Serjeantry, by the yearly presentation of "ane hempen cravatte." After remaining for several generations in the same name, the office passed, by marriage of the heiress, into the ancient family of the Kirbys, and thence again to that of Callcraft (1st Eliz. 1558).--Abhorson Callcraft, Esq. of Saffron Hill, co. Middx., the present representative of the Ketches, exercised his "function" on a very recent occasion, and claimed and was allowed the fee of 13-1/2_d._ under the ancient grant as ~Hangman's Wages~.

ARMS.--1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter a Gibbet of the second, noosed proper, _Callcraft_. 2nd, Sable, three Nightcaps Argent, tufted Gules, 2 and 1, _Ketche_. 3rd, Or, a Nosegay _fleurant_, _Kirby_.

SUPPORTERS.--_Dexter_: a Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained and collared Or.--_Sinister_: An Ordinary displayed proper, wigged and banded Argent, nosed Gules.

MOTTO.--SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!

[44] The American Justinian, Compiler of the "Yankee Pandects."

[45] A similar appropriation is said to have been made, by an eminent practitioner, of those of the late Monsieur Courvoisier.

* * * * *

Her niece, of whom I have before made honourable mention, is not a whit behind Mrs. Botherby in furnishing entertainment for the young folks. If little Charles has the aunt to _sol fa_ him into slumber, Miss Jenny is equally fortunate in the possession of a Sappho of her own. It is to the air of "Drops of Brandy" that Patty has adapted her version of a venerable ditty, which we have all listened to with respect and affection under its old title of

THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY.

AN OLD SONG TO A NEW TUNE.

When we were all little and good,--
A long time ago, I'm afraid, Miss--
We were told of the Babes in the Wood
By their false, cruel Uncle betray'd, Miss;
Their Pa was a Squire, or a Knight;
In Norfolk I think his estate lay--
That is, if I recollect right,
For I've not read the history lately.[46]
_Rum ti_, &c.

Their Pa and their Ma being seized
With a tiresome complaint, which, in some seasons,
People are apt to be seized
With, who're not on their guard against plum-seasons,
Their medical man shook his head
As he could not get well to the root of it;
And the Babes stood on each side the bed,
While their Uncle, he stood at the foot of it.

"Oh, Brother!" their Ma whisper'd, faint
And low, for breath seeming to labour, "Who'd
Think that this horrid complaint,
That's been going about in the neighbourhood,
Thus should attack me,--nay, more,
My poor husband besides,--and so fall on him!
Bringing us so near to Death's door
That we can't avoid making a call on him!

"Now think, 'tis your Sister invokes
Your aid, and the last word she says is,
Be kind to those dear little folks
When our toes are turned up to the daisies!--
By the servants don't let them be snubb'd,--
--Let Jane have her fruit and her custard,--
And mind Johnny's chilblains are rubb'd
Well with Whitehead's best essence of mustard.

"You know they'll be pretty well off in
Respect to what's called 'worldly gear,'
For John, when his Pa's in his coffin,
Comes in to three hundred a-year;
And Jane's to have five hundred pound
On her marriage paid down, ev'ry penny,
So you'll own a worse match might be found,
Any day in the week, than our Jenny!"

Here the Uncle pretended to cry,
And, like an old thorough-paced rogue, he
Put his handkerchief up to his eye,
And devoted himself to Old Bogey
If he did not make matters all right,
And said, should he covet their riches,
He "wished the old Gentleman might
Fly away with him, body and breeches!"

No sooner, however, were they
Put to bed with a spade by the sexton,
Than he carried the darlings away
Out of that parish into the next one,
Giving out he should take them to town,
And select the best school in the nation,
That John might not grow up a clown,
But receive a genteel education.

"Greek and Latin old twaddle I call!"
Says he, "While his mind's ductile and plastic,
I'll place him at Dotheboys Hall,
Where he'll learn all that's new and gymnastic.
While Jane, as, when girls have the dumps,
Fortune-hunters, by scores, to entrap 'em rise,
Shall go to those worthy old frumps,
The two Misses Tickler of Clapham Rise!"

Having thought on the How and the When
To get rid of his nephew and niece,
He sent for two ill-looking men,
And he gave them five guineas a-piece.--
Says he, "Each of you take up a child
On the crupper, and when you have trotted
Some miles through that wood lone and wild,
Take your knife out, and cut its carotid!"--

"Done" and "done" is pronounced on each side,
While the poor little dears are delighted
To think they a-cock-horse shall ride,
And are not in the least degree frighted;
They say their "Ta! Ta!" as they start,
And they prattle so nice on their journey,
That the rogues themselves wish to their heart
They could finish the job by attorney.

Nay, one was so taken aback
By seeing such spirit and life in them,
That he fairly exclaim'd, "I say, Jack,
I'm blowed if I _can_ put a knife in them!"--
"Pooh!" says his pal, "you great dunce!
You've pouched the good gentleman's money,
So out with your whinger at once,
And scrag Jane, while I spiflicate Johnny!"

He refused, and harsh language ensued,
Which ended at length in a duel,
When he that was mildest in mood
Gave the truculent rascal his gruel;
The Babes quake with hunger and fear,
While the ruffian his dead comrade, Jack, buries;
Then he cries, "Loves, amuse yourselves here
With the hips, and the haws, and the blackberries!

"I'll be back in a couple of shakes;
So don't, dears, be quivering and quaking:
I'm going to get you some cakes,
And a nice butter'd roll that's a-baking!"
He rode off with a tear in his eye,
Which ran down his rough cheek, and wet it,
As he said to himself with a sigh,
"Pretty souls!--don't they wish they may get it!!"

From that moment the Babes ne'er caught sight
Of the wretch who thus wrought their undoing,
But passed all that day and that night
In wandering about and "boo-hoo"-ing.
The night proved cold, dreary, and dark,
So that, worn out with sighings and sobbings,
Next morn they were found stiff and stark,
And stone-dead, by two little Cock-Robins.

These two little birds it sore grieves
To see what so cruel a dodge I call,--
They cover the bodies with leaves,
An interment quite ornithological;
It might more expensive have been,
But I doubt, though I've not been to see 'em,
If among those in all Kensal Green
You could find a more neat Mausoleum.

Now, whatever your rogues may suppose,
Conscience always makes restless their pillows,
And Justice, though blind, has a nose
That sniffs out all conceal'd peccadilloes.
The wicked old Uncle, they say,
In spite of his riot and revel,
Was hippish and qualmish all day,
And dreamt all night long of the d--l.

He grew gouty, dyspeptic, and sour,
And his brow, once so smooth and so placid,
Fresh wrinkles acquired every hour,
And whatever he swallow'd turn'd acid.
The neighbours thought all was not right,
Scarcely one with him ventured to parley,
And Captain Swing came in the night,
And burnt all his beans and his barley.

There was hardly a day but some fox
Ran away with his geese and his ganders;
His wheat had the mildew, his flocks
Took the rot, and his horses the glanders;
His daughters drank rum in their tea,
His son, who had gone for a sailor,
Went down in a steamer at sea,
And his wife ran away with a tailor!

It was clear he lay under a curse,
None would hold with him any communion;
Every day matters grew worse and worse,
Till they ended at length in The Union;
While his man being caught in some fact,
(The particular crime I've forgotten,)
When he came to be hanged for the act,
Split, and told the whole story to Cotton.

Understanding the matter was blown,
His employer became apprehensive
Of what, when 'twas more fully known,
Might ensue--he grew thoughtful and pensive;
He purchased some sugar-of-lead,
Took it home, popp'd it into his porridge,
Ate it up, and then took to his bed,
And so died in the workhouse at Norwich.

MORAL.

Ponder well now, dear Parents, each word
That I've wrote, and when Sirius rages
In the dog-days, don't be so absurd
As to blow yourself out with Green-gages!
Of stone-fruits in general be shy,
And reflect it's a fact beyond question
That Grapes, when they're spelt with an _i_,
Promote anything else but digestion.--

--When you set about making your will,
Which is commonly done when a body's ill,
Mind, and word it with caution and skill,
And avoid, if you can, any codicil!
When once you've appointed an heir
To the fortune you've made, or obtained, ere
You leave a reversion, beware
Whom you place in contingent remainder!

Executors, Guardians, and all
Who have children to mind, don't ill treat them,
Nor think that, because they are small
And weak, you may beat them, and cheat them!
Remember that "ill-gotten goods
Never thrive;" their possession's but cursory;
So never turn out in the woods
Little folks you should keep in the nursery.

Be sure he who does such base things
Will ne'er stifle Conscience's clamour;
His "riches will make themselves wings,"
And his property come to the hammer!
Then He,--and not those he bereaves,--
Will have most cause for sighings and sobbings,
When he finds _himself_ smother'd with leaves
(Of fat catalogues) heaped up by Robins!

FOOTNOTES:

[46] See Bloomfield's History of the County of Norfolk, in which all the particulars of this lamentable history are (or ought to be) fully detailed, together with the names of the parties, and an elaborate pedigree of the family.

* * * * *

The incidents recorded in the succeeding Legend were communicated to a dear friend of our family by the late lamented Sir Walter Scott. The names and localities have been scrupulously retained, as she is ready to testify. The proceedings in this case are, I believe, recorded in some of our law reports, though I have never been able to lay my hand upon them.

THE DEAD DRUMMER.

A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.

Oh, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,--
At least so I've heard many people declare,
For I fairly confess I never was there;--
Not a shrub nor a tree, Nor a bush can you see;
No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles,
Much less a house, or a cottage for miles;--
--It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain
When night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain.

Now, I'd have you to know That, a great while ago,
The best part of a century, may be, or so,
Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary,
A couple of Travellers, wayworn and weary,
Were making their way; Their profession, you'd say,
At a single glance did not admit of a query;
The pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers, worn then,
With scarce an exception by seafaring men,
The jacket,--the loose trousers "bows'd up together"--all
Guiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall,--
The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion,
Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean,
And shew'd in a moment their real char_á_cters,
(The accent's so placed on this word by our Jack Tars.)

The one in advance was sturdy and strong,
With arms uncommonly bony and long,
And his Guernsey shirt Was all pitch and dirt,
Which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong.
He was very broad-breasted, And very deep-chested;
His sinewy frame correspond with the rest did,
Except as to height, for he could not be more
At the most, you would say, than some five feet four,
And if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower.
Dame Nature, in fact,--whom some person or other,
--A Poet,--has call'd a "capricious step-mother,"--
You saw, when beside him, Had somehow denied him
In longitude what she had granted in latitude,
A trifling defect You'd the sooner detect
From his having contracted a stoop in his attitude.
Square-built and broad-shoulder'd, good-humoured and gay,
With his collar and countenance open as day,
The latter--'twas mark'd with small-pox, by the way,--
Had a sort of expression good will to bespeak;
He'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek!
And, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height,
He was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight,
You would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight!

The other, his friend and companion, was taller
By five or six inches, at least, than the smaller;--
From his air and his mien It was plain to be seen,
That he was, or had been, A something between
The real "Jack Tar" and the "Jolly Marine."
For, though he would give an occasional hitch,
Sailor-like to his "slops," there was something, the which,
On the whole savoured more of the pipe-clay than pitch.--
Such were now the two men who appeared on the hill,
Harry Waters the tall one, the short "Spanking Bill."
To be caught in the rain, I repeat it again,
Is extremely unpleasant on Salisbury Plain;
And when with a good soaking shower there are blended
Blue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended;
Such was the case In this wild dreary place,
On the day that I'm speaking of now, when the brace
Of trav'llers alluded to quickened their pace,
Till a good steady walk became more like a race,
To get quit of the tempest which held them in chase.

Louder, and louder Than mortal gunpowder,
The heav'nly artill'ry kept crashing and roaring,
The lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring,
While they, helter-skelter, In vain sought for shelter
From, what I have heard term'd, "a regular pelter;"
But the deuce of a screen Could be anywhere seen,
Or an object except that on one of the rises,
An old way-post show'd Where the Lavington road
Branch'd off to the left from the one to Devizes;
And thither the footsteps of Waters seem'd tending,
Though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending,
To a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes,
Is content, for the most part, to follow his nose;--
While Harry kept "backing
And filling,"--and "tacking,"--
Two nautical terms which, I'll wager a guinea, are
Meant to imply What you, Reader, and I
Would call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear.

But here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuse
All mistakes I may make in the words sailors use
'Mongst themselves, on a cruise, Or ashore with the Jews,
Or in making their court to their Polls and their Sues,
Or addressing those slop-selling females afloat--women
Known in our navy as oddly-named boat-women.
The fact is, I can't say I'm vers'd in the school
So ably conducted by Marryat and Poole;
(See the last-mentioned gentleman's "Admiral's Daughter,")
The grand _vade mecum_ For all who to sea come,
And get, the first time in their lives, in blue water;
Of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonder
If I now and then should fall into some blunder,
For which Captain Chamier, or Mr. T. P. Cooke
Would call me a "Lubber," and "Son of a Sea-cook."

_To return to our muttons_--This mode of progression
At length upon Spanking Bill made some impression.
--"Hillo, messmate, what cheer?
How queer you _do_ steer!"
Cried Bill, whose short legs kept him still in the rear.
"Why, what's in the wind, Bo?--what is it you fear?"
For he saw in a moment that something was frightening
His shipmate much more than the thunder and lightning.

--"Fear?" stammer'd out Waters, "why, HIM!--don't you see
What faces that Drummer-boy's making at me!--
--How he dodges me so Wherever I go?--
What is it he wants with me, Bill,--do you know?"

--"What Drummer-boy, Harry?" cries Bill, in surprise,
(With a brief explanation, that ended in "eyes,")
"What Drummer-boy, Waters?--the coast is all clear,
We haven't got never no Drummer-boy here!"

--"Why, there!--don't you see How he's following me?
Now this way, now that way, and won't let me be!
Keep him off, Bill--look here-- Don't let him come near!
Only see how the blood-drops his features besmear!
What, the dead come to life again!--Bless me!--Oh dear!"

Bill remarked in reply, "This is all very queer--
What, a Drummer-boy--bloody, too--eh!--well, I never--
I can't see no Drummer-boy here whatsumdever!"
"Not see him!--why there;--look!--he's close by the post--
Hark!--hark!--how he drums at me now!--he's a Ghost!"

"A what?" return'd Bill,--at that moment a flash
More than commonly awful preceded a crash
Like what's call'd in Kentucky "an Almighty Smash."--
And down Harry Waters went plump on his knees,
While the sound, though prolong'd, died away by degrees;
In its last sinking echoes, however, were some
Which, Bill could not help thinking, resembled a drum!

"Hollo! Waters!--I says," Quoth he in amaze,
"Why, I never see'd _nuffin_ in all my born days
Half so queer As this here, And I'm not very clear
But that one of us two has good reason for fear--
You to jaw about drummers, with nobody near us!--
I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus."

"Oh, mercy!" roared Waters, "do keep him off, Bill,
And, Andrew, forgive!--I'll confess all!--I will!

I'll make a clean breast, And as for the rest,
You may do with me just what the lawyers think best;
But haunt me not thus!--let these visitings cease,
And, your vengeance accomplish'd, Boy, leave me in peace!"
--Harry paused for a moment,--then turning to Bill,
Who stood with his mouth open, steady and still,
Began "spinning" what nauticals term "a tough yarn,"
Viz.: his tale of what Bill call'd "this precious _consarn_."

* * * * *

"It was in such an hour as this,
On such a wild and wint'ry day,
The forked lightning seemed to hiss,
As now, athwart our lonely way,
When first these dubious paths I tried--
_Yon livid form_ was by my side!--

"Not livid then--the ruddy glow
Of life, and youth, and health it bore!
And bloodless was that gory brow,
And cheerful was the smile it wore,
And mildly then those eyes did shine--
--Those eyes which now are blasting mine!!

"They beamed with confidence and love
Upon my face,--and Andrew Brand
Had sooner fear'd yon frighten'd dove
Than harm from Gervase Matcham's hand!
--I am no Harry Waters--men
Did call me Gervase Matcham then.

"And Matcham, though a humble name,
Was stainless as the feathery flake
From Heaven, whose virgin whiteness came
Upon the newly-frozen lake;
Commander, comrade, all began
To laud the Soldier,--like the Man.

"Nay, muse not, William,--I have said
I was a soldier--staunch and true
As any he above whose head
Old England's lion banner flew;
And, duty done,--her claims apart,-
'Twas said I had a kindly heart.

"And years roll'd on,--and with them came
Promotion--Corporal--Sergeant--all
In turn--I kept mine honest fame--
Our Colonel's self,--whom men did call
The veriest Martinet--ev'n he,
Though cold to most, was kind to me!--

"One morn--oh! may that morning stand
Accursed in the rolls of fate
Till latest time!--there came command
To carry forth a charge of weight
To a detachment far away,--
--It was their regimental pay!--

"And who so fit for such a task
As trusty Matcham, true and tried,
Who spurn'd the inebriating flask,
With honour for his constant guide?--
On Matcham fell their choice--and HE,--
'Young Drum,'--should bear him company!

"And grateful was that sound to hear,
For he was full of life and joy,
The mess-room pet--to each one dear
Was that kind, gay, light-hearted boy.
--The veriest churl in all our band
Had aye a smile for Andrew Brand.--

"--Nay, glare not as I name thy name!
That threat'ning hand, that fearful brow
Relax--avert that glance of flame!
Thou seest I do thy bidding now!
Vex'd Spirit, rest!--'twill soon be o'er,--
Thy blood shall cry to Heaven no more!

"Enough--we journey'd on--the walk
Was long,--and dull and dark the day,--
And still young Andrew's cheerful talk
And merry laugh beguiled the way;
Noon came--a sheltering bank was there,--
We paused our frugal meal to share.

"Then 'twas, with cautious hand, I sought
To prove my charge secure,--and drew
The packet from my vest, and brought
The glittering mischief forth to view,
And Andrew cried,--No!--'twas not He!--
It was THE TEMPTER spoke to me!

"But it was Andrew's laughing voice
That sounded in my tingling ear,
'Now, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice,'
It seem'd to say, 'are gawds and gear,
And all that wealth can buy or bring,
Ease,--wassail,--worship,--every thing!

"'No tedious drill, no long parade,
No bugle call at early dawn;--
For guard-room bench, or barrack bed,
The downy couch, the sheets of lawn
And I thy Page,--thy steps to tend,
Thy sworn companion,--servant,--friend!

--"He ceased--that is, I heard no more,
Though other words pass'd idly by,
And Andrew chatter'd as before,
And laugh'd--I mark'd him not--not I.
'_Tis at thy choice!_' that sound alone
Rang in mine ear--voice else was none.

"I could not eat,--the untasted flask
Mocked my parch'd lip,--I passed it by.
'What ails thee, man?' he seem'd to ask.--
I _felt_, but could not _meet_ his eye.--
'_Tis at thy choice!_'--it sounded yet,--
A sound I never may forget.

--"'Haste! haste! the day draws on,' I cried,
'And, Andrew, thou hast far to go!'--
'_Hast far to go!_' the Fiend replied
Within me,--'twas _not_ Andrew--no!
'Twas Andrew's voice no more--'twas HE
_Whose_ then I was, and aye must be!

--"On, on we went;--the dreary plain
Was all around us--we were _Here_!
Then came the storm,--the lightning,--rain,--
No earthly living thing was near,
Save one wild Raven on the wing,
--If that, indeed, were earthly thing!

"I heard its hoarse and screaming voice
High hovering o'er my frenzied head,
'_'Tis, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice!
But he--the Boy!_' methought it said.
--Nay, Andrew, check that vengeful frown,--
I lov'd thee when I struck thee down!

* * * * *

"'Twas done!--the deed that damns me--done
I know not how--I never knew;--
And _Here_ I stood--but not alone,--
The prostrate Boy my madness slew,
Was by my side--limb, feature, name,
'Twas HE!!--another--yet the same!

* * * * *

"Away! away! in frantic haste
Throughout that live-long night I flew--
Away! away!--across the waste,--
I know not how--I never knew,--
My mind was one wild blank--and I
Had but one thought,--one hope--to fly!

"And still the lightning ploughed the ground,
The thunder roared--and there would come
Amidst its loudest bursts a sound,
Familiar once--it was--A DRUM!--
Then came the morn,--and light,--and then
Streets,--houses,--spires,--the hum of men.

"And Ocean roll'd before me--fain
Would I have whelm'd me in its tide,
At once beneath the billowy main
My shame, my guilt, my crime to hide;
But HE was there!--HE cross'd my track,--
I dared not pass--HE waved me back!

"And then rude hands detained me--sure
Justice had grasp'd her victim--no!
Though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure,
A captive thrall, it was not so;
They cry 'The Frenchman's on the wave!'
The press was hot--and I a slave.

"They dragg'd me o'er the vessel's side;
The world of waters roll'd below;
The gallant ship, in all her pride
Of dreadful beauty, sought her foe;
--Thou saw'st me, William, in the strife--
Alack! I bore a charmed life;

"In vain the bullets round me fly,
In vain mine eager breast I bare;
Death shuns the wretch who longs to die,
And every sword falls edgeless there!
Still HE is near!--and seems to cry,
'Not _here_, nor _thus_, may Matcham die!'--

"Thou saw'st me, on that fearful day,
When, fruitless all attempts to save,
Our pinnace foundering in the bay,
The boat's-crew met a watery grave,--
All, all--save ONE--the ravenous sea
That swallow'd all--rejected ME!

"And now, when fifteen suns have each
Fulfilled in turn its circling year,
Thrown back again on England's beach,
Our bark paid off--HE drives me _Here_!
I could not die in flood or fight--
HE drives me HERE!!"--
"And sarve you right!

"What! bilk your Commander!--desart--and then rob!
And go scuttling a poor little Drummer-boy's nob!
Why, my precious eyes! what a bloodthirsty swab!--
There's old Davy Jones, Who cracks Sailors' bones
For his jaw-work would never, I'm sure, s'elp me Bob,
Have come for to go for to do sich a job!
Hark ye, Waters,--or Matcham,--whichever's your purser-name,
--T'other, your own, is, I'm sartain, the worser name,--
Twelve years have we lived on like brother and brother!--
Now--your course lays one way, and mine lays another!"

"No, William, it may not be so;
Blood calls for blood!--'tis Heaven's decree!
And thou with me this night must go,
And give me to the gallows-tree!
Ha!--see--HE smiles--HE points the way!
On, William, on! no more delay!"

Now Bill,--so the story, as told to me, goes,
And who, as his last speech sufficiently shows,
Was a "regular trump,"--did not like to "turn Nose;"
But then came a thunder-clap louder than any
Of those that preceded, though they were so many;
And hark!--as its rumblings subside in a hum,
What sound mingles too?--"By the hokey--A DRUM!!"

* * * * *

I remember I once heard my Grandfather say,
That some sixty years since he was going that way,
When they shew'd him the spot
Where the gibbet--was not--
On which Matcham's corse had been hung up to rot;
It had fall'n down--but how long before, he'd forgot;
And they told him, I think, at the Bear in Devizes,
The town where the Sessions are held,--or the 'Sizes,
That Matcham confess'd, And made a clean breast
To the May'r; but that, after he'd had a night's rest,
And the storm had subsided, he "pooh-pooh'd" his friend,
Swearing all was a lie from beginning to end;
Said "he'd only been drunk-- That his spirits had sunk
At the thunder--the storm put him into a funk,--
That, in fact, he had nothing at all on his conscience,
And found out, in short, he'd been talking great nonsense."--

But now one Mr. Jones Comes forth and depones
That, fifteen years since, he had heard certain groans
On his way to Stone Henge (to examine the stones
Described in a work of the late Sir John Soane's,)
That he'd followed the moans, And, led by their tones,
Found a Raven a-picking a Drummer-boy's bones!--
--Then the Colonel wrote word
From the King's Forty-third,
That the story was certainly true which they'd heard,
For, that one of their drummers, and one Sergeant Matcham,
Had "brushed with the dibs," and they never could catch 'em.

So Justice was sure, though a long time she'd lagg'd,
And the Sergeant, in spite of his "Gammon," got "scragg'd;"
And people averred That an ugly black bird,
The Raven, 'twas hinted, of whom we have heard,
Though the story, I own, appears rather absurd,
Was seen (Gervase Matcham not being interr'd),
To roost all that night on the murderer's gibbet;
An odd thing, if so, and it may be a fib--it,
However, 's a thing Nature's laws don't prohibit.
--Next morning, they add, that "black gentleman" flies out,
Having picked Matcham's nose off, and gobbled his eyes out!

MORAL.

_Avis au Voyageur._

_Imprimis._
If you contemplate walking o'er Salisbury Plain,
Consult Mr. Murphy, or Moore, and refrain
From selecting a day when it's likely to rain!

2^o.
When trav'lling, don't "flash" Your notes or your cash
Before other people--it's foolish and rash!

3^o.
At dinner be cautious, and note well your party;--
There's little to dread where the appetite's hearty,--
But mind and look well to your purse and your throttle
When you see a man shirking, and passing his bottle!

4^o.
If you chance to be needy, Your coat and hat seedy,
In war-time especially, never go out
When you've reason to think there's a press-gang about!

5^o.
Don't chatter, nor tell people all that you think,
Nor blab secrets,--especially when you're in drink,--
But keep your own counsel in all that you do!
--Or a Counsel may, some day or other, keep you.

6^o.
Discard superstition!--and don't take a post,
If you happen to see one at night, for a Ghost!
--Last of all, if by choice, or convenience, you're led,
To cut a man's throat, or demolish his head,
Don't do't in a thunderstorm--wait for the summer!
And mind, above all things, the MAN'S NOT A DRUMMER!!

* * * * *

Among a bundle of letters I find one from Sucklethumbkin, dated from London, and containing his version of perhaps the greatest theatrical Civil War since the celebrated "O. P. row." As the circumstances are now become matter of history, and poor Doldrum himself has been, alas! for some time the denizen of a far different "House," I have ventured to preserve it. Perhaps it may be unnecessary to add, that my Honourable friend has of late taken to Poetry, and goes without his cravat.

A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX).

A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET.

Omnibus hoc vitium cantoribus.--HOR.

Dol-drum the Manager sits in his chair,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,
And he says as he slaps his hands on his knee,
"I'll have nothing to do with Fiddle-de-dee!"

--"But Fiddle-de-dee sings clear and loud,
And his trills and his quavers astonish the crowd;
Such a singer as he You'll nowhere see;
They'll all be screaming for Fiddle-de-dee!"--"Though
Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear,
And his tones are sweet, yet his terms are dear!
The 'glove won't fit!' The deuce a bit.
I shall give an engagement to Fal-de-ral-tit!"

The Prompter bow'd, and he went to his stall,
And the green-baize rose at the Prompter's call,
And Fal-de-ral-tit sang fol-de-rol-lol;
But, scarce had he done When a row begun,
Such a noise was never heard under the sun.
"Fiddle-de-dee!-- --Where is he?
He's the _Artiste_ whom we all want to see!--
Dol-drum!--Dol-drum!-- Bid the Manager come!
It's a scandalous thing to exact such a sum
For boxes and gallery, stalls and pit,
And then fob us off with a Fal-de-ral-tit!--
Deuce a bit! We'll never submit!
_Vive_ Fiddle-de-dee! _à bas_ Fal-de-ral-tit!"

Dol-drum the Manager rose from his chair,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air;
But he smooth'd his brow, As he well knew how,
And he walk'd on, and made a most elegant bow,
And he paused, and he smiled, and advanced to the lights,
In his opera-hat, and his opera-tights;
"Ladies and Gentlemen," then said he,
"Pray what may you please to want with me?"

"Fiddle-de-dee!-- Fiddle-de-dee!"
Folks of all sorts and of every degree,
Snob, and Snip, and haughty Grandee,
Duchesses, Countesses, fresh from their tea,
And Shopmen, who'd only come there for a spree,
Halloo'd, and hooted, and roar'd with glee
"Fiddle-de-dee!-- --None but He!--
Subscribe to his terms, whatever they be!--
Agree, agree, or you'll very soon see
In a brace of shakes we'll get up an O.P.!"

Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,
Looks distrest, And he bows his best,
And he puts his right hand on the side of his breast,
And he says,--says he, "We _can't_ agree;
His terms are a vast deal too high for me.--
There's the rent, and the rates, and the sesses, and taxes--
I can't afford Fiddle-de-dee what he _axes_.
If you'll only permit Fal-de-ral-tit----"

The "Generous Public" cried, "Deuce a bit!
Dol-drum!--Dol-drum!-- We'll none of us come.
It's 'No Go!'--it's 'Gammon!'--it's 'all a Hum:'--
You're a miserly Jew!-- 'Cock-a-doodle-do!'
He _don't_ ask too much, as you know--so you do--
It's a shame--it's a sin--it's really too bad--
You ought to be 'shamed of yourself--so you had!"

Dol-drum the Manager never before
In his life-time had heard such a wild uproar.
Dol-drum the Manager turn'd to flee;
But he says--says he, "_Mort de ma vie!_
I shall _nevare_ engage vid dat Fiddle-de-dee!"
Then all the gentlefolks flew in a rage,
And they jump'd from the Omnibus on to the Stage,
Lords, Squires, and Knights, they came down to the lights,
In their opera-hats, and their opera-tights.
Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Shook to her very toes,
She couldn't hop on, so hopped off on her merry toes.
And the "evening concluded" with "Three times three!"
"Hip!--hip!--hurrah! for Fiddle-de-dee!"

Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
With a troubled brow and dissatisfied air,
Saddest of men, Sat down, and then
Took from his table a Perryan pen,
And he wrote to the "News,"
How MacFuze, and Tregooze,
Lord Tomnoddy, Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues,
And the whole of their tail, and the separate crews
Of the Tags and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos,
Had combined Monsieur Fal-de-ral-tit to abuse,
And make Dol-drum agree With Fiddle-de-dee,
Who was not a bit better singer than he.
--Dol-drum declared "he never could see,
For the life of him, yet, why Fiddle-de-dee,
Who, in B flat, or C, Or whatever the key,
Could never at any time get below G,
Should expect a fee the same in degree
As the great Burlybumbo who sings double D."
Then slyly he added a little N.B.
"If they'd have him in Paris he'd not come to me!"

The Manager rings, And the Prompter springs
To his side in a jiffy, and with him he brings
A set of those odd-looking envelope things,
Where Britannia (who seems to be crucified,) flings
To her right and her left funny people with wings,
Amongst Elephants, Quakers, and Catabaw Kings;
And a taper and wax, And small Queen's heads in packs,
Which, when notes are too big, you're to stick on their backs.
Dol-drum the Manager sealed with care
The letter and copies he'd written so fair,
And sat himself down with a satisfied air;
Without delay He sent them away,
In time to appear in "our columns" next day!

Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
Walk'd on to the stage with an anxious air,
And peep'd through the curtain to see who were there.
There was MacFuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And there was Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues,
And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos;
And the green-baize rose at the Prompter's call,
And they all began to hoot, bellow, and bawl,
And cry "Cock-a-doodle," and scream, and squall
"Dol-drum!--Dol-drum! Bid the Manager come!"
You'd have thought from the tones
Of their hisses and groans,
They were bent upon breaking his (Opera) bones.
And Dol-drum comes, and he says--says he,
"Pray what may you please to want with me?"--
"Fiddle-de-dee!-- Fiddle-de-dee!--
We'll have nobody give us _sol fa_ but He!
For he's the _Artiste_ whom we all want to see."

--Manager Dol-drum says--says he--
(And he looks like an Owl in "a hollow beech-tree,")
"Well, since I see The thing must be,
I'll sign an agreement with Fiddle-de-dee!"
Then MacFuze, and Tregooze, And Jenks of the Blues,
And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos,
Extremely delighted to hear such good news,
Desist from their shrill "Cock-a-doodle-doos."
"_Vive_ Fiddle-de-dee! Dol-drum, and He!
They are jolly good fellows as ever need be!
And so's Burlybumbo, who sings double D!
And whenever they sing, why, we'll all come and see!"

So, after all This terrible squall,
Fiddle-de-dee 's at the top of the tree,
And Dol-drum and Fal-de-ral-tit sing small!
Now Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear
At I can't tell you how many thousands a year,
And Fal-de-ral-tit is considered "Small Beer;"
And Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Sports her merry toes.
Dancing away to the fiddles and flutes,
In what the folks call a "Lithuanian" in boots.

So here's an end to my one, two, and three;
And bless the Queen--and long live She!
And grant that there never again may be
Such a halliballoo as we've happened to see
About nothing on earth but "Fiddle-de-dee!"

* * * * *

We come now to the rummaging of Father John's stores. The extracts which I shall submit from them are of the same character as those formerly derived from the same source, and may be considered as theologico-historical, or Tracts for his times.

With respect to the first legend on this list, I have to remark that, though the good Father is silent on the subject, there is every reason to believe that the "little curly-wigged" gentleman, who plays, though passively, so prominent a part in it, had Ingoldsby blood in his veins. This conjecture is supported by the fact of the arms of Scroope, impaling Ingoldsby, being found, as in the Bray case, in one of the windows, and by a very old marriage-settlement, nearly, or quite, illegible, a fac-simile of the seal affixed to which is appended to this true history.

THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT;

OR,

THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY.

A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.

Nobilis quidam, cui nomen _Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler_, cum invitasset convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba: "_Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest!_"

* * * * *

Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferunt. Dæmones incipiunt comessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. _Ah_, inquit pater, _ubi infans meus?_ Vix cum hæc dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, &c. _Chronicon de Bolton._

It's in Bolton Hall, and the Clock strikes One,
And the roast meat's brown, and the boil'd meat's done
And the barbecu'd sucking-pig's crisp'd to a turn,
And the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn;
The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice
With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
Want nothing but eating--they're all ready drest.
But where is the Host, and where is the Guest?

Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page,
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),
And the scullions and cooks, With fidgetty looks,
Are grumbling, and mutt'ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner's put back;
For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunn'd snow-flake, is spread out with care,
And the Dais is furnish'd with stool and with chair,
And plate of _orfèvrerie_ costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there,
And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face,
And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace.
Yet where is the Host?--and his convives--where?

The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall,
He watches the large hand, he watches the small,
And he fidgets, and looks As cross as the cooks,
And he utters--a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!"
As he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?--
What can delay De Vaux and De Saye?
What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay?
What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye?
Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away?
And De Nokes, and De Stiles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey?
And De Roe? And De Doe?--
Poynings, and Vavasour--where be they?
Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son)?
Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!'
There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting!
It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!"