I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses— I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises— At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat, And one from a Bailiff much faster than that— At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder— I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder— I've seen little boys run away from a cane— And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain;[2] But I never did read Of, or witness, such speed As David exerted that evening.—Indeed All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men, Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "Pen!"
He reaches it's brow,— He has past it,—and now Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity; But, run as he will, Or roll down the hill, That bugbear behind him is after him still! And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking, Till, exhausted and sore, He can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door, And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, "Oh! Look at the Clock!—Do!—Look at the Clock!! Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down, She saw nothing there to alarm her;—a frown Came o'er her white forehead, She said, "It was horrid A man should come knocking at that time of night, And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;— To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!" She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call: His late wife's disaster By no means had past her," She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!" Then regardless alike of his love and his woes, She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose.
Poor David in vain Implored to remain, He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again." Why the fair was obdurate None knows,—to be sure, it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;— Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole! In that shady retreat With nothing to eat, And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, All night close he kept; I can't say he slept; But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept; Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins, Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis, Consigning to Satan,—viz., cruel Miss Davis!
Mr. David has since had a "serious call," He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, And they say he is going to Exeter Hall To make a grand speech, And to preach, and to teach People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!" That an ancient Welsh Poet, one Pyndar ap Tudor, Was right in proclaiming "Ariston Men Udor!" Which means "The pure Element Is for Man's belly meant!" And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder!
And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up," At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup, Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into "The Chair," And make all his quondam associates stare By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter, "Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!" The dial he constantly watches; and when The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.," He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs, Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his President's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly—"Gentlemen! "Look at the Clock!!!"
The succeeding Legend has long been an established favourite with all of us, as containing much of the personal history of one of the greatest ornaments of the family tree.
To the wedding between the sole heiress of this redoubted hero and a direct ancestor is it owing that the Lioncels of Shurland hang so lovingly parallel with the Saltire of the Ingoldsbys, and now form as cherished a quartering in their escutcheon as the "dozen white lowses" in the "old coat" of Shallow.