Over Mountain, over Fell, Glassy Fountain, mossy Dell, Rocky Island, barren Strand, Over Ocean, over Land; With frisk and bound, and squeaks and squalls, Heels over head, and head over heels; With curlings and twistings, and twirls and wheeleries, Down they drop at the gate of the Tuilleries.
Courtiers were bowing and making legs, While Charley le Roi was bolting eggs; "Mob," says Cob, "Chittabob," says Mob, "Come here, you young Devil, we're in for a job!" Up jumps Cob to the Monarch's ear, "Charley, my jolly boy, never fear; If you mind all their jaw About Charter and Law, You might just as well still be the Count d'Artois! No such thing, Show 'em you're King, Tip 'em an Ordinance, that's the thing!" Charley dined, Took his pen and signed; Then Mob kicked over his throne from behind! "Huzza! Huzza! we may scamper now! For here we have kicked up a jolly good row!"
"Over the water, and over the Sea, And over the water with Charlie;" Now they came skipping and grinning with glee, Not pausing to chaff or to parley. Over, over, On to Dover; On fun intent, All through Kent These mischievous devils so merrily went.
Over hill and over dale, Sunken hollow, lofty ridge, Frowning cliff, and smiling vale, Down to the foot of Westminster-bridge. "Hollo," says Cob, "There's the Duke and Sir Bob! After 'em Chittabob, after 'em Mob." Mob flung gravel, and Chittabob pebbles, His Grace c——'d them both for a couple of rebels; His feelings were hurt By the stones and the dirt— In went he, In an ecstasy, And blew up the nobles of high degree.
"Mr. Brougham, Mr. Hume, May fret and may fume— And so may all you whom I see in this room; Come weal, come woe, come calm, come storm— I'll see you all—blessed—ere I give you reform;" "Bravo," says Chittabob, "That's your sort, Come along, schoolfellows, here's more sport. Look there! look there! There's the great Lord May'r! With the gravest of Deputies close to his chair; With Hobbler, his Clerk! Just the thing for a lark; Huzza! huzza! boys, follow me now; Here we may kick up another good row." Here they are, Swift as a star, They shoot in mid air, over Temple Bar! Tom Macaulay beheld the flight Of these three little dusky sons of night, And his heart swell'd with joy and elation— "Oh, see!" quoth he, "Those Niggerlings three, Who have just got emancipation!"
Lord Key took fright: At the very first sight, The whole Court of Aldermen wheel'd to the right; Some ran from Chittabob—more from Mob, The great locum tenens jump'd up upon Cob, Who roar'd and ran, With the Alderman To the Home Office, pick-a-back—catch 'em who can! "Stay at home—here's a plot, And I can't tell you what, If you don't I'll be shot, But you'll all go to pot." Ah, little he weened while the ground he thus ran over, 'Twas a Cob he bestrode—not his white horse from Hanover.
Back they came galloping through the Strand, When Joseph Lancaster, stick in hand, Popped up his head before 'em. Well we know That honest old Joe Is a sort of High Master down below, And teaches the Imps decorum. Satan had started him off in a crack, To flog those three little runaways back.
Fear each assails; Every one quails; "Oh dear! how he'll tickle our little black tails! Have done, have done, Here's that son of a gun, Old Joe, come after us,—run, boys, run." Off ran Cob, Off ran Mob, And off in a fright ran young Chittabob. Joe caught Chittabob just by the tail, And Cob by his crumpled horn; Bitterly then did these Imps bewail That ever they were born! Mob got away, But none to this day Know exactly whither he went; Some say he's been seen about Blackfriars-bridge, And some say he's down in Kent.
But where'er he may roam, He has not ventured home Since the day the three took wing, And many suppose He has chang'd his clothes, And now goes by the name of "Swing."