“He plays the airy flute,
And looks depressed and blighted,
Doves round about him ‘toot,’
And lambkins dance delighted.
“He labours more than you
At worsted work, and frames it;
In old maids’ albums, too,
Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!”
The tempter said his say,
Which pierced him like a needle—
He summoned straight away
His sexton and his beadle.
(These men were men who could
Hold liberal opinions:
On Sundays they were good—
On week-days they were minions.)
“To Hopley Porter go,
Your fare I will afford you—
Deal him a deadly blow,
And blessings shall reward you.
“But stay—I do not like
Undue assassination,
And so before you strike,
Make this communication:
“I’ll give him this one chance—
If he’ll more gaily bear him,
Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,
I willingly will spare him.”
They went, those minions true,
To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,
And told their errand to
The Reverend Hopley Porter.
“What?” said that reverend gent,
“Dance through my hours of leisure?
Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—
Play croquêt? Oh, with pleasure!
“Wear all my hair in curl?
Stand at my door and wink—so—
At every passing girl?
My brothers, I should think so!