Now around they go, and around, and around, With hop-skip-and-jump, and frolicsome bound, Such sailing and gliding, Such sinking and sliding, Such lofty curvetting, And grand pirouetting; Ned, you would swear that Monsieur Gilbert And Miss Taglioni were capering there!
And oh! such awful music!—ne'er Fell sounds so uncanny on mortal ear, There were the tones of a dying man's groans Mix'd with the rattling of dead men's bones: Had you heard the shrieks, and the squeals, and the squeaks, You'd not have forgotten the sound for weeks.
And around, and around, and around they go, Heel to heel, and toe to toe, Prance and caper, curvet and wheel, Toe to toe, and heel to heel. "'Tis merry, 'tis merry, Cummers, I trow, To dance thus beneath the nightshade bough!"—
"Goody Price, Goody Price, now riddle me right, Where may we sup this frolicsome night?"
"Mine host of the Dragon hath mutton and veal! The Squire hath partridge, and widgeon, and teal; But old Sir Thopas hath daintier cheer, A pasty made of the good red deer, A huge grouse pie, and a fine Florentine, A fat roast goose, and a turkey and chine."
—"Madge Gray, Madge Gray, Now tell me, I pray, Where's the best wassail bowl to our roundelay?"
—"There is ale in the cellars of Tappington Hall, But the Squire[8] is a churl, and his drink is small; Mine host of the Dragon Hath many a flaggon Of double ale, lamb's wool, and eau de vie, But Sir Thopas, the Vicar, Hath costlier liquor,— A butt of the choicest Malvoisie. He doth not lack Canary or sack; And a good pint stoup of Clary wine Smacks merrily off with a Turkey and Chine!"
"Now away! and away! without delay, Hey Cockalorum! my Broomstick gay! We must be back ere the dawn of the day: Hey up the chimney! away! away!"— Old Goody Price Mounts in a trice, In showing her legs she is not over nice; Old Goody Jones, All skin and bones, Follows "like winking."—Away go the crones, Knees and nose in a line with the toes, Sitting their brooms like so many Ducrows; Latest and last The damsel pass'd, One glance of her coal-black eye she cast; She laugh'd with glee loud laughters three, "Dost fear, Rob Gilpin, to ride with me?"— Oh, never might man unscath'd espy One single glance from that coal-black eye. —Away she flew!— Without more ado Rob seizes and mounts on a broomstick too, "Hey! up the chimney, lass! Hey after you!"
It's a very fine thing, on a fine day in June, To ride through the air in a Nassau Balloon; But you'll find very soon, if you aim at the Moon In a carriage like that, you're a bit of a "Spoon," For the largest can't fly Above twenty miles high, And you're not half way then on your journey, nor nigh; While no man alive Could ever contrive, Mr. Green has declared, to get higher than five. And the soundest Philosophers hold that, perhaps, If you reach'd twenty miles your balloon would collapse, Or pass by such action The sphere of attraction, Getting into the track of some comet—Good-lack! 'Tis a thousand to one that you'd never come back; And the boldest of mortals a danger like that must fear, Rashly protruding beyond our own atmosphere. No, no; when I try A trip to the sky, I shan't go in that thing of yours, Mr. Gye, Though Messieurs Monk Mason, and Spencer, and Beazly, All join in saying it travels so easily. No; there's nothing so good As a pony of wood— Not like that which, of late, they stuck up on the gate At the end of the Park, which caused so much debate, And gave so much trouble to make it stand straight,— But a regular Broomstick—you'll find that the favourite— Above all, when, like Robin, you haven't to pay for it. —Stay—really I dread— I am losing the thread Of my tale; and it's time you should be in your bed, So lithe now, and listen, my little boy Ned!
The Vicarage walls are lofty and thick, And the copings are stone, and the sides are brick, The casements are narrow, and bolted and barr'd, And the stout oak door is heavy and hard; Moreover, by way of additional guard, A great big dog runs loose in the yard, And a horse-shoe is nail'd on the threshold sill,— To keep out aught that savours of ill,— But, alack! the chimney-pot's open still! —That great big dog begins to quail, Between his hind-legs he drops his tail, Crouch'd on the ground, the terrified hound Gives vent to a very odd sort of a sound; It is not a bark, loud, open, and free, As an honest old watch-dog's bark should be; It is not a yelp, it is not a growl, But a something between a whine and a howl; And, hark!—a sound from the window high Responds to the watch-dog's pitiful cry: It is not a moan, It is not a groan; It comes from a nose,—but is not what a nose Produces in healthy and sound repose. Yet Sir Thopas the Vicar is fast asleep, And his respirations are heavy and deep!