“No, sir,” replied Cole; “sing by yourself; one ass at a time is bad enough; but three braying together, are insupportable.”
“The same man,—the same man as ever;” exclaimed Cuddle, apparently very much pleased;—“begin, Homer;—you know his way;—he can't resist, when his bar comes. He had always these crotchets;—begin, my boy; I will pledge myself that he falls in with the stream of the tune.”
Horner and Cuddle now commenced the glee; and, as the latter had predicted, Cole, after closing his eyes, throwing himself back in his chair, and making sundry wry faces, trowled forth the first reply, and afterwards, all the other responses of old Father Time, in the following verses.—
“Whither away! old Father Time?
Ah! whither dost thou run?”—
“Low,—low,
I've a mob to mow;
My work is never done.”
“Tarry awhile with us, old Time,
And lay thy scythe aside!”—
“Nay!—nay!
'Tis a busy day;
My work it lieth wide.”
“Tell us, we pray thee, why, old Time,
Thou look'st so pale and glum?”—
Fie!—fie!
“I evermore sigh,
'Eternity, oh! come!'”
“Art thou, then, tired, old Father Time?
Thy labour dost thou rue?”—
“Long,—long,
Has it been my song,—
'Could I but die like you!'”
“Tell us, then, when, old Father Time,
We may expect thy death!”—
“That morn Eternity's born,
Receives my parting breath.”
“And what's eternity, Father Time?
We pray thee, tell us now!”—
“When men
Are dead, it is then Eternity they know.”
“Come, fill up thy glass, old Father Time,
And clog its sands with wine!”—
“No, no;
They would faster flow,
And distil tears of brine!”
Caddy Cuddle, at the conclusion of these verses, took possession of a vacant chair, by the side of old Cole, and soon forgot that there was such a being as Mrs. Watermark in existence. He quaffed bumper after bumper with honest Jack;—an hour passed very pleasantly away in talking of old times;—and Cuddle wondered to find himself slightly intoxicated. He immediately rose, took his leave rather uncourteously, and went out, muttering something about “eleven miles,” and “Mother Watermark.” In a few minutes, he was mounted, and trotting toward the park gate which opened on the high road. “A fine night, Billy Norman;—a fine night, Billy;” said Cuddle, as he rode through, to the old gatekeeper; “pray, Billy, what say you? Don't you think they have cut the roads up cruelly, of late years?—Here's half a crown, Billy.—What with planting, and enclosing, and road-making, I scarcely know the face of the country; it's as puzzling as a labyrinth.—Good night, Billy!”
Cuddle, who was a tolerably bold rider, for a man of his years, now struck his horse rather forcibly, with his heels, and urged him at once into a brisk hand-gallop.
“He hath a spur in his head,” said Billy Norman to himself, as Cuddle disappeared down the road; “I hope nought but good may happen him; for he's one of the right sort, if he had it.” The roads were dry and hard, the air serene, and Billy stood listening, for a few minutes, to the sounds of the horse's feet; he soon felt convinced, by the cadences, that Caddy Cuddle was increasing, rather than diminishing, his speed. The beat of the hoofs became, at length, barely audible; it gradually died away; and Norman was going in to light his pipe, when he thought he heard the sounds again. He put his hand behind his ear, held his breath, and, in a few moments, felt satisfied that Caddy Cuddle had taken the wrong turning, and was working back, by a circular route, toward Caddy Castle again. As he approached nearer, Norman began to entertain apprehensions that Cuddle's horse had run away with him, in consequence of the violent pace, at which, it was clear, from the sound of its feet, that the animal was going. Norman stepped off the pathway into the road, and prepared to hail Cuddle, as he passed, and ascertain, if possible, what really was the matter. The horse and his rider came on nearly at full speed, and Norman shouted, with all his might,—“Holloa! hoy! stop!”
“I carry arms! I carry arms!” cried Cuddle, urging his horse forward with all his might.
“Zauns!” exclaimed Norman, “he takes I for a highwayman!—He must ha' mistook the road, that's certain; the horse can't ha' run away wi' un, or a'uldn't kick un so.—Sailor, you be out o' your latitude.”
The circle, which Caddy Cuddle had made, was about two miles in circumference: he went precisely in the same direction again, without, in the least, suspecting his error; and having, as he thought, mastered four miles of his road homeward, and given his horse a tolerable breathing, he began to pull up by degrees, as he, for the second time, approached the little rustic lodge of Caddy Park, from which he had issued at his departure. Norman again hailed him, for he felt tolerably satisfied that Caddy carried no other arms than those with which Nature had endowed him. Caddy now knew the voice, and pulled up:—“Who's there?” said he; “A friend, I think; for I remember your tone.—Who are you, honest man?”