In lavish stream his accents flow,
Tom, Bob, and Billy dare not flout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.
“Ha, ha!” he said, “you loathe your ways,
You writhe at these my words of warning,
In agony your hands you raise.”
(And so they did, for they were yawning.)
To “Twenty-firstly” on they go,
The lads do not attempt to scout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.
“Ho, ho!” he cries, “you bow your crests—
My eloquence has set you weeping;
In shame you bend upon your breasts!”
(And so they did, for they were sleeping.)
He proved them this—he proved them that—
This good but wearisome ascetic;
He jumped and thumped upon his hat,
He was so very energetic.
His Bishop at this moment chanced
To pass, and found the road encumbered;
He noticed how the Churchman danced,
And how his congregation slumbered.
The hundred and eleventh head
The priest completed of his stricture;
“Oh, bosh!” the worthy Bishop said,
And walked him off as in the picture.
THE YARN OF THE “NANCY BELL.” [44]
’Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key: