SAINT IVES
Viscomte, your health. Confusion to the foe.
The noble lord your uncle—bless his name!
And may your wicked captors die in shame.
I kiss your hand; I kiss your forehead—so!
The castle cliff is steep, but down below
Both fortune and the lady Flora wait.
Oh, you will meet them, I anticipate,
Your hand upon your heart, and bowing low.
The stage-coach lumbers heavily tonight.
Its wheels sound loudly on the stony flag.
What's that! A chest of florins in the drag
Gone! And the rascally postboy taken flight!
Ah, well, God send him a dark night, and we ...
Your health, Saint Ives, in sparkling Burgundy.