Now these poor folks had got a friend,
Who dwelt in London city;
And oft some present he would send
To John and dame, in pity.
Now, reader, if you'll backwards turn,
And read this tale's beginning,
Full half-a-century you'll learn
This story has been spinning.
Now near that time, you must be told,
Tea first came into fashion;
Tea, which oft made a husband scold,
And bounce about in passion.
At least, 'mongst those of middling life
It made a hideous riot;
To have a gay tea-drinking wife,
A man could ne'er be quiet.
'Twas thought as bad as now, I ween,—
A sin since then grown bigger,—
Were a man's wife, by guzzling gin,
To cut a reeling figure.
But London, who drank tea the first,
Grew reconcil'd unto it;
And, though 'twas thought of crimes the worst,
The ladies still would do it.
Now, reader, the flax-dresser's friend
(The flax-dresser of Spondon)
Thought a good pound of tea he'd send
To please them both from London.
But he forgot, good man, I trow,
That in this favoured nation,
Good things, or bad, still travel slow,
Like cow-inoculation.
Nor ever dreamt, you may believe,
That they had no more notion
What was the gift they did receive,
Than of the Western Ocean.
So when it came, long ponder'd they
How 'twas to be devour'd;
They wish'd he'd sent some hint to say,
For they were quite o'erpower'd.