However, let's not yet despair;
Tho' Toryism's eclipst, at present.
And—like myself, in this old chair—
Sits in a state by no means pleasant;
Feet crippled—hands, in luckless hour,
Disabled of their grasping power;
And all that rampant glee, which revelled
In this world's sweets, be-dulled, be-deviled—
Yet, tho' condemned to frisk no more,
And both in Chair of Penance set,
There's something tells me, all's not o'er
With Toryism or Bobby yet;
That tho', between us, I allow
We've not a leg to stand on now;
Tho' curst Reform and colchicum
Have made us both look deuced glum,
Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout,
Again we'll shine triumphant out!
Yes—back again shall come, egad,
Our turn for sport, my reverend lad.
And then, O'Mulligan—oh then,
When mounted on our nags again,
You, on your high-flown Rosinante,
Bedizened out, like Show-Gallantee
(Glitter great from substance scanty);—
While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride
Your faithful Sancho, by your side;
Then—talk of tilts and tournaments!
Dam'me, we'll—
* * * * *
'Squire Fudge's clerk presents
To Reverend Sir his compliments;
Is grieved to say an accident
Has just occurred which will prevent
The Squire—tho' now a little better—
From finishing this present letter.
Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll"—
His Honor, full of martial zeal,
Graspt at his crutch, but not being able
To keep his balance or his hold,
Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled,
Like ball and bat, beneath the table.
All's safe—the table, chair and crutch;—
Nothing, thank God, is broken much,
But the Squire's head, which in the fall
Got bumped considerably—that's all.
At this no great alarm we feel,
As the Squire's head can bear a deal.
Wednesday morning
Squire much the same—head rather light—
Raved about "Barbers' Wigs" all night.
Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,
Suspects that he meant "barbarous Whigs."