Walter Tyrrel, the son of a Norman Papa, Has, somehow or other, a Saxon Mama: Though humble, yet far above mere vulgar loons, He's a sort of a sub in the Rufus dragoons; Has travelled, but comes home abruptly, the rather That some unknown rascal has murder'd his father; And scarce has he picked out, and stuck in his quiver, The arrow that pierced the old gentleman's liver, When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone, That his sweetheart has bolted,—with whom is not known. But, as murder will out, he at last finds the lady At court with her character grown rather shady: This gives him the "blues," and impairs the delight He'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a Knight, For giving a runaway stallion a check, And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck.
Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost, And frightens a soldier away from his post; Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher, Draws it over his ears and pretends he's a Friar. This gains him access to his sweetheart, Miss Faucit; But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet; Where oddly enough, among some of her things, He discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's, Of the very same pattern with that which he found Sticking into his father when dead on the ground! Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door, Bounces into the Drawing-room, stamps on the floor, With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye, And blows up King William the Second, sky-high; Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs, That his Majesty bids his men kick him down stairs.
King Rufus is cross when he comes to reflect, That as King, he's been treated with gross disrespect; So he pens a short note to a holy physician, And gives him a rather unholy commission, Viz., to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup, Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up. Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter Perceives, in his walks, this same cup on the altar. As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking, When Miss Faucit in tears, comes in running like winking; He pauses of course, and as she's thirsty too, Says, very politely, "Miss, I after you!" The young lady curtsies, and being so dry, Raises somehow her fair little finger so high, That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye;" While the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise, She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter," and dies. At that moment the King, who is riding to cover, Pops in en passant on the desperate lover, Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him, —So he does,—he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him. From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows, The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose; And Sir Walter, thus having concluded his quarrel, Walks down to the footlights, and draws this fine moral: "Ladies and Gentlemen, Lead sober lives:— Don't meddle with other folks' Sweethearts or Wives!— When you go out a sporting, take care of your gun, And—never shoot elderly people in fun!"
[MARIE MIGNOT.]
Miss Marie Mignot was a nice little Maid, Her Uncle a Cook, and a Laundress her trade, And she loved as dearly as any one can Mister Lagardie, a nice little man. But Oh! But Oh! Story of woe! A sad interloper, one Monsieur Modeau, Ugly and old, With plenty of gold, Made his approach In an elegant coach, Her fancy was charmed with the splendour and show And he bore off the false-hearted Molly Mignot.