“Let the century get a character, then; when it does, we shall get some good staves. I’m not particular; a brave story, or a quaint story, or a funny story, in good rough verse, that’s all I ask for. But, where to find one? Here’s the Doctor for umpire. I say, Doctor, don’t you agree with me, now?”
“Not quite,” said the Doctor, looking up from his cold beef. “I dare say you wouldn’t think them worth much; but there are plenty of ballads sung about which you never hear.”
“What! real modern ballads, written by some of the masses, in this century, for instance? Where did you ever hear one, Doctor? What are they like, now?”
“Well, my work takes me a good deal about in queer places, and at queer times, amongst the country folk, and I hear plenty of them. Will one about Lord Nelson suit you? There’s an old patient of mine at the next table who owns a little coal wharf on the canal; he fell into the lock one night, broke his arm, and was nearly drowned, and I attended him. He takes a trip in the barges now and then, which makes him fancy himself half a sailor. I dare say I can set him off, if he hasn’t had too much beer.”
So the Doctor walked over to a lower table, and spoke to a grisly-headed old man in a velveteen coat and waistcoat, and a blue birdseye-neckerchief, who seemed pleased, and drew his sleeve across his mouth, and cleared his throat. Then there was a rapping on the table, and the old bargee began in a rumbling bass voice:—
THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON.
Come all you gallant seamen as unites a meeting,
Attend to these lines I be going to relate,
And when you have heard them ’twill move you with pity