But the fretful foam of the summer sea, the scent of the seething tar,
Alas and alack they ever bring back, the fate of the Capstan Bar!
("O, Bravo!" shout those who pretended they knew the poem. The Vicar nods his head approvingly. "How sweet!" says a gushing young Lady of uncertain age who contributes to "Poet's Corner" in the "Sniggerton Sentinel." The C. P. thinks he has made an impression, and, putting on an air of intense pain, he proceeds.)
O! we toil and moil and we moil and toil for the scanty wage we earn,
As the mud may spatter the hansom-cab and freckle the fitful fern:
But never again in the wreathing rain, a-roll on the raucous rink,
Do we clasp the hand of the German band and swim in the sable ink!
While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the juggëd hare may jar,
With a gruesome groan as he sits alone and stares at the Capstan Bar!
(Two old Ladies shed tears, the Poetess tells her friend that she has "quite a lump in her throat" and the Landlord of the "Jocund Jellyfish," thinking the "Bar" is something convivial, vows he will ask the Recitor what he will please to take directly the performance is over. The C. P. changes his tone to one of hearty joviality and proceeds merrily.)