1. TIMMY TAYLOR AND THE RATS
It was a spell of sultry weather,
There’d been no rain for weeks together,
And little Timmy Taylor,
A mouse of a man,
Walked down the road
With a big milk-can,
Walked softly down the road at night
When the stars were thick and the moon was bright.
Hard by the road a spring came up
To glimmer in a rare bright cup
Of green-sward, burnt elsewhere quite dry.
To this he came—we won’t ask why—
Little Timmy Taylor,
The mouse of a man,
With a big milk-can.
Then, as he turned, so goes the story—
Came trooping through the moonlight glory
Hundreds and scores of—what do you think?
Rats! rats a-coming down to drink
From granary and barn and stack,
Grey and tawny, brown and black,
Tails cocked up and teeth all gleaming,
Beady eyes light-filled, and seeming
That moony-mad and hunger-fierce.
Little Timmy Taylor,
The mouse of a man,
Dropped the milk-can,
And giving a shriek—’twas fit to pierce
The ear o’ the dead—he ran away,
And the can was found in the road next day.
2. WILLUM ACCOUNTS FOR THE
PRICE OF LAMPREY
“Aye, sure, it’s pretty fish, but there’s no sale
Nowadays.” “Why?” “Well, the story that they tell
Is, as the king were very fond on ’em,
And all the fashion ate and paid up well.
And then one day our king—so goes the tale—
Ate over-hearty-like and throwed ’em up.
So all the fashion with him when he dined
Cut out their orders,—and the price cum down.
And maybe that be true, for still in town
Our council—scheming, likely, to remind
His Majesty of joys he left behind—
Sends un the very prince o’ lamprey pies
(I’ve seen un many a while in Fisher’s winder)
And so, God willing and if nothing hinder,
Some day he’ll taste again and prices rise.”
3. THE OLDEST INHABITANT HEARS
FAR OFF THE DRUMS OF DEATH
Sometimes ’tis far off, and sometimes ’tis nigh,
Such drummerdery noises too they be!
’Tis odd—oh, I do hope I baint to die
Just as the summer months be coming on,
And buffly chicken out, and bumble-bee:
Though, to be sure, I cannot hear ’em plain
For this drat row as goes a-drumming on,
Just like a little soldier in my brain.
And oh, I’ve heard we got to go through flame
And water-floods—but maybe ’tisn’t true!
I allus were a-frightened o’ the sea.
And burning fires—oh, it would be a shame
And all the garden ripe, and sky so blue.
Such drummerdery noises, too, they be.