Now this was wise in Whitbread—here we find
A very pretty knowledge of mankind;
As monarchs never must be in the wrong,
'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue,
To tell a little fib, or some such thing,
To save the sinking credit of a king.
Some brewers, in a rage of information,
Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation,
Had on the folly dwelt, to seem damned clever!
Now, what had been the consequence? Too plain!
The man had cut his consequence in twain;
The king had hated the WISE fool forever!
Reader, whene'er thou dost espy a nose
That bright with many a ruby glows,
That nose thou mayest pronounce, nay safely swear,
Is nursed on something better than small-beer.
Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise,
Or natural history holding lofty station,
Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes,
Such kings have had a goodly education.
Now did the king admire the bell so fine,
That daily asks the draymen all to dine:
On which the bell rung out (how very proper!)
To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.
And now before their sovereign's curious eye,
Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs,
All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style,
Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs:
On which the observant man, who fills a throne,
Declared the pigs were vastly like his own:
On which, the brewer, swallowed up in joys,
Tears and astonishment in both his eyes,
His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal,
Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine
Be deemed by majesty so fine!
Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?"
To which the king assented with a nod;
On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good God!"
Then winked significant on Miss;
Significant of wonder and of bliss;
Who, bridling in her chin divine,
Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid,
And then her lowest courtesy made
For such high honor done her father's swine.
Now did his majesty so gracious say
To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way,
"Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then?
Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade?
Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid?
What, what's the matter with the men?
"D'ye hunt!—hae, hunt? No, no, you are too old—
You'll be lord mayor—lord mayor one day—
Yes, yes, I've heard so—yes, yes, so I'm told:
Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay?
I'll prick you every year, man, I declare:
Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor.
"Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?
Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best
You put your liveries on the draymen-hee?
Hae, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest.
What, what's the price now, hee, of all your stock?
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?"
Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed
If I know what to answer first;"
Then searched his brains with ruminating eye:
But e'er the man of malt an answer found,
Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round,
Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply.