“For though some mirth it might afford
To see my clothes without their lord,
Yet there would rise indignant oaths
If he were seen without his clothes!”
But no; resolved to have her quiz,
The lady held her own—and his—
And Peter left his humble cot
To find a pair of—you know what.
But—here’s the worst of the affair—
Whene’er he came across a pair
Already placed for him to don,
He was too stout to get them on!
So he resolved at once to train,
And walked and walked with all his main;
For years he paced this mortal earth,
To bring himself to decent girth.
At night, when all around is still,
You’ll find him pounding up a hill;
And shrieking peasants whom he meets,
Fall down in terror on the peats!
Old Peter walks through wind and rain,
Resolved to train, and train, and train,
Until he weighs twelve stone’ or so—
And when he does, I’ll let you know.
THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE.
Perhaps already you may know
Sir Blennerhasset Portico?
A Captain in the Navy, he—
A Baronet and K.C.B.
You do? I thought so!
It was that Captain’s favourite whim
(A notion not confined to him)
That Rodney was the greatest tar
Who ever wielded capstan-bar.
He had been taught so.
“Benbow! Cornwallis! Hood!—Belay!
Compared with Rodney”—he would say—
“No other tar is worth a rap!
The great Lord Rodney was the chap
The French to polish!
Though, mind you, I respect Lord Hood;
Cornwallis, too, was rather good;
Benbow could enemies repel,
Lord Nelson, too, was pretty well—
That is, tol-lol-ish!”
Sir Blennerhasset spent his days
In learning Rodney’s little ways,
And closely imitated, too,
His mode of talking to his crew—
His port and paces.
An ancient tar he tried to catch
Who’d served in Rodney’s famous batch;
But since his time long years have fled,
And Rodney’s tars are mostly dead:
Eheu fugaces!