Suffice it to say, From that notable day The "Twin Birchington Brothers" together grew gray: In the same holy convent continued to dwell, Same food and same fastings, same habit, same cell.
No more the Knight rattles In broils and in battles, But sells, by De Robins, his goods and his chattels, And counting all wealth a mere Will-o'-the-wisp, Disposes of Quekes to Sir Nicholas Crispe.
One spot alone Of all he had known Of his spacious domain he retain'd as his own, In a neighbouring parish, whose name, I may say, Scarce any two people pronounce the same way.
Re-cul-ver some style it, While others revile it As bad, and say Re-culver—'tisn't worth while, it Would seem, to dispute, when we know the result immat- erial—I accent, myself, the penultimate.
Sages, with brains Full of "Saxon remains," May call me a booby, perhaps, for my pains, Still I hold, at the hazard of being thought dull by 'em, Fast by the quantity mark'd for Regulbium.
Call't as you will, The Traveller still, In the voyage that we talk'd about, marks on the hill Overhanging the sea, the "twin towers" raised then By "Robert and Richard, those two pretty men."
Both tall and upright, And just equal in height; The Trinity House talked of painting them white, And the thing was much spoken of some time ago, When the Duke, I believe—but I really don't know.
Well—there the "Twins" stand On the verge of the land, To warn mariners off from the Columbine sand, And many a poor man have Robert and Dick By their vow caused to 'scape, like themselves, from Old Nick.
So, whether you're sailors Or Tooley-street Tailors, Broke loose from your masters, those sternest of jailers, And, bent upon pleasure, are taking your trip In a craft which you fondly conceive is a ship, When you've passed by the Nore, And you hear the winds roar In a manner you scarce could have fancied before, When the cordage and tackling Are flapping and crackling, And the boy with the bell Thinks it useless to tell You that "dinner's on table," because you're unwell;
When above you all's "scud," And below you the flood Looks a horrible mixture of soap-suds and mud, When the timbers are straining, And folks are complaining, The dead-lights are letting the spray and the rain in, When the helm's-man looks blue, And Captain Large too, And you really don't know what on earth you shall do.