Had thrown in her face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees,”
I thought that the limits of the “triple-bob,” as I should like to call it, had been reached. Years afterwards I found myself in a fit of chuckling over Byron's
“Tell us ye husbands of wives intellectual,
Now tell us truly, have they not hen-pecked you all?”
After another lapse I found among the carillon of Calverley,—
“No, mine own, though early forced to leave you,
Still my heart was there where first we met;
In those 'Lodgings with an ample sea-view,'
Which were, forty years ago, 'To Let.'”
The Bab Ballads are full of whimsical rimes; but put all these that I have named together and you will find that they are easily outjingled by Sir Owen Seaman. The first “copy of verses” in Punch any week is a masterpiece in its way, and assuredly some of his brethren of Bouverie Street are not very far behind him in the merry dance in which he sets the pas.