ET a coach be called,
And let the man who called it be the caller;
And in his calling let him nothing call,
But coach, coach, coach! Oh for a coach, ye gods!
Carey, Chrononhotonthologos.
F you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be easy getting dinner.
Mrs. Poyser, in George Eliot's Adam Bede.
HERE'S somewhat on my breast, father,
There's somewhat on my breast;
The livelong day I sigh, father,
And at night I cannot rest.
'Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor want of worldly gear;
My lands are broad, and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear.
'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.
'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast:
It's that confounded cucumber
I've eat and can't digest.
R. H. Barham, Ingoldsby Lyrics.