In rush’d the father, panting from the shop,
In rush’d the mother, without cap or tête,
Pursued by Betty Housemaid with her mop;
The cook to change her apron did not stop,
The charwoman next scrambled up the stair,—
All help to lift, to haul, to seat, to prop,
And then they stand and smother round the chair,
Exclaiming in a chorus, “Give her air!”
One sears her nostrils with a burning feather,
Another rams a phial up her nose;