"While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues,
Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the Muse;
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents the Jews.
"Ned drives about in buggies,
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a DULLARD,
And Ned a GENIUS?"
"You'll cut him with a shilling,"
Exclaimed the man of wits:
"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,
"Sir Lawyer, as befits;
And portion both their fortunes
Unto their several wits."
"Your grace knows best," the lawyer said,
"On your commands I wait."
"Be silent, sir," says Brentford,
"A plague upon your prate!
Come, take your pen and paper,
And write as I dictate."
The will, as Brentford spoke it,
Was writ, and signed, and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
And turned him round, and dozed;
And next week in the church-yard
The good old king reposed.
Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,
Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings
Poor Edward showed his grief;
Tom hid his fat, white countenance
In his pocket handkerchief.
Ned's eyes were full of weeping,
He faltered in his walk;
Tom never shed a tear,
But onward he did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn,
As any catafalque.
And when the bones of Brentford—
That gentle king and just—
With bell, and book, and candle,
Were duly laid in dust,
"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,
"Let business be discussed.
"When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him,
(I mean to tax your bill;)
And, as you signed and wrote it,
I pr'ythee read the will."
The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
Sat eager round about:
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne'er a doubt.