King Edward went o'er to his wars in Guienne, Taking with him his barons, his knights, and his men. You may look through the whole Of that King's muster-roll, And you won't find the name of Sir Alured Denne; But Chronicles tell that there formerly stood A little old chapel in Bilsington wood; The remains to this day, Archæologists say, May be seen, and I'd go there and look if I could. There long dwelt a hermit remarkably good, Who lived all alone, And never was known To use bed or bolster, except the cold stone; But would groan and would moan in so piteous a tone, A wild Irishman's heart had responded "Och hone!" As the fashion with hermits of old was to keep skins To wear with the wool on—most commonly sheep-skins— He, too, like the rest was accustom'd to do so; His beard, as no barber came near him, too, grew so, He bore some resemblance to Robinson Crusoe, In Houndsditch, I'm told, you'll sometimes see a Jew so.
He lived on the roots, And the cob-nuts and fruits, Which the kind-hearted rustics, who rarely are churls In such matters, would send by their boys and their girls; They'd not get him to speak, If they'd tried for a week, But the colour would always mount up in his cheek, And he'd look like a dragon if ever he heard His young friends use a naughty expression or word. How long he lived, or at what time he died, Twere hard, after so many years, to decide, But there's one point on which all traditions agree. That he did die at last, leaving no legatee, And his linen was marked with an A and a D.
Alas! for the glories of Bonnington Hall! Alas, for its splendour! alas for its fall! Long years have gone by Since the trav'ler might spy Any decentish house in the parish at all. For very soon after the awful event I've related, 'twas said through all that part of Kent That the maids of a morning, when putting the chairs And the tables to rights, would oft pop unawares In one of the parlours, or galleries, or stairs. On a tall female figure, or find her, far horrider, Slowly o' nights promenading the corridor; But whatever the hour, or wherever the place, No one could ever get sight of her face! Nor could they perceive Any arm in her sleeve, While her legs and her feet too, seem'd mere "make-believe," For she glided along with that shadow-like motion Which gives one the notion Of clouds on a zephyr, or ships on the ocean; And though of her gown they could hear the silk rustle, They saw but that side on't ornée with the bustle. The servants, of course, though the house they were born in, Soon "wanted to better themselves," and gave warning, While even the new Knight grew tired of a guest Who would not let himself or his family rest; So he pack'd up his all, And made a bare wall Of each well-furnished room in his ancestors' Hall, Then left the old Mansion to stand or to fall, Having previously barr'd up the windows and gates, To avoid paying sesses and taxes and rates, And settled on one of his other estates, Where he built a new mansion, and called it Denne Hill, And there his descendants reside, I think, still.
Poor Bonnington, empty, or left, at the most, To the joint occupation of rooks and a Ghost, Soon went to decay, And moulder'd away, But whether it dropp'd down at last I can't say, Or whether the jackdaws produced, by degrees, a Spontaneous combustion like that one at Pisa Some cent'ries ago, I'm sure I don't know, But you can't find a vestige now ever so tiny, "Perierunt," as some one says, "etiam ruinæ."
Moral.
The first maxim a couple of lines may be said in, If you are in a passion, don't swear at a wedding!
Whenever you chance to be ask'd out to dine, Be exceedingly cautious—don't take too much wine! In your eating remember one principal point, Whatever you do, have your eye on the joint! Keep clear of side dishes, don't meddle with those Which the servants in livery, or those in plain clothes, Poke over your shoulders and under your nose; Or, if you must live on the fat of the land, And feed on fine dishes you don't understand, Buy a good book of cookery! I've a compact one, First rate of the kind, just brought out by Miss Acton, This will teach you their names, the ingredients they're made of, And which to indulge in, and which be afraid of, Or else, ten to one, between ice and cayenne, You'll commit yourself some day, like Alured Denne.
"To persons about to be married," I'd say, Don't exhibit ill-humour, at least on The Day! And should there perchance be a trifling delay On the part of officials, extend them your pardon, And don't snub the parson, the clerk, or churchwarden!
To married men this—For the rest of your lives, Think how your misconduct may act on your wives! Don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint, Or what sometimes occurs—run away with a Saint!