Nobilis quidam, cui nomen Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler, cum invitasset convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba: "Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest!"
Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferunt. Dæmones incipiunt comessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, ubi infans meus? Vix cum hæc dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, &c.
Chronicon de Bolton.
It's in Bolton Hall, and the Clock strikes One, And the roast meat's brown, and the boil'd meat's done And the barbecu'd sucking-pig's crisp'd to a turn, And the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn; The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use; Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best, Want nothing but eating—they're all ready drest. But where is the Host, and where is the Guest?
Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page, Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage), And the scullions and cooks, With fidgetty looks, Are grumbling, and mutt'ring, and scowling as black As cooks always do when the dinner's put back; For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair As the unsunn'd snow-flake, is spread out with care, And the Dais is furnish'd with stool and with chair, And plate of orfèvrerie costly and rare, Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there, And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face, And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace. Yet where is the Host?—and his convives—where?
The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall, And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall, He watches the large hand, he watches the small, And he fidgets, and looks As cross as the cooks, And he utters—a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!" As he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?— What can delay De Vaux and De Saye? What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay? What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye? Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away? And De Nokes, and De Stiles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey? And De Roe? And De Doe?— Poynings, and Vavasour—where be they? Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son)? Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!' There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting! It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!"
It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two! And the scullions and cooks are themselves in "a stew," And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do, For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags, And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags, And the fish is all spoil'd And the butter's all oil'd, And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen, And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen! While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume, And to fret by himself in the tapestried room, And still fidgets, and looks More cross than the cooks, And repeats that bad word, which we've soften'd to "Zooks!"
Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone, And the large and the small hands move steadily on, Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare, To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare, Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir, That nice little boy who sits there in his chair, Some four years old, and a few months to spare, With his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly hair, Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.
Again, Sir Guy the silence broke, "It's hard upon Three!—it's just on the stroke! Come, serve up the dinner!—A joke is a joke!"— Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,[47] Who "his fun," as the Yankees say, everywhere "pokes," And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes, Has written a circular note to De Nokes, And De Stiles, and De Roe, and the rest of the folks, One and all, Great and small, Who were asked to the Hall To dine there, and sup, and wind up with a ball, And had told all the party a great bouncing lie he Cook'd up, that "the fête was postponed sine die, The dear little curly-wig'd heir of Le Scroope Being taken alarmingly ill with the croup!"
When the clock struck Three, And the Page on his knee Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, On a servi!" And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear, With nobody near To partake of his cheer, He stamp'd, and he storm'd—then his language!—Oh dear! 'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear! And he cried to the button-deck'd Page at his knee, Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi," "Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be! —The Devil take them! and the Devil take thee! And the Devil may eat up the dinner for me!"
In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room, He bounced out of the house—and page, footman, and groom Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard Of this left-handed Grace the last finishing word, Ere the horn, at the gate of the Barbican tower, Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power, And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!—such a group As had ne'er before darkened the doors of the Scroope!
This looks like De Saye—yet—it is not De Saye— And this is—no, 'tis not—Sir Reginald Braye— This has somewhat the favour of Marmaduke Grey— But stay!—Where on earth did he get those long nails? Why, they're claws!—then, Good Gracious!—they've all of them tails! That can't be De Vaux—why, his nose is a bill, Or, I would say, a beak!—and he can't keep it still!— Is that Poynings?—Oh Gemini!—look at his feet!! Why, they're absolute hoofs!—is it gout or his corns That have crumpled them up so?—by Jingo, he's horns! Run! run!—There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son), And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford—they've all got them on! Then their great saucer eyes— It's the Father of lies And his Imps—run! run! run!—they're all fiends in disguise, Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions, The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connexions, And He—at the top there—that grim-looking elf— Run! run!—that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself!