He applied the right bait, and with flattery he caught her; With flatt'ry a female's a fish out of water. The state of her heart when the barber once guess'd, The flame to allay their bosoms did so burn, They set out for the church of St. Andrew in Holborn, Where tonsors and trulls, country Dicks and their cousins, In the halter of wedlock are tied up by dozens. The nuptials to grace came from every quarter, Muscle-mongers and oyster-men, crimps and coal-heavers, And butchers, with marrow-bones smiting their cleavers : Shrimp-scalders and mole-catchers, tailors and tilers, Boys, botchers, bawds, bailiffs, and black-pudding boilers. From their voices united such melody flow'd As the Abbey ne'er witness'd, nor Tott'nham-court Road ; While St. Andrew's bells did so loud and so clear ring, You'd given ten pound to 've been out of their hearing. For his fee, when the parson this couple had join'd, HERE lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore, A pleasant wight on Town, yclep'd Tom King, Expert in all the arts to teaze and smoke, In short, for strokes of humour, quite the thing. 145 To many a jovial club this King was known, Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood, To him રી frolic was a high delight: A frolic he would hunt for, day and night, Careless how prudence on the sport might frown. If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view, One night, our hero, rambling with a friend, And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light. Around this place, there lived the numerous clans Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans, Known, at that time, by name of refugees. The rod of persecution, from their home, Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam, And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees. Well! our two friends were saunt'ring through the street, In hopes some food for humour soon to meet, When, in a window near, a light they view; Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock,) 66 "I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here." Thompson," cries t'other, "who the devil's he?" "I know not," King replies, "but want to see What kind of animal will now appear." After some time, a little Frenchman came; Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled, Bending his head politely to his knee- Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?” "Sir," reply'd King, " I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go, (But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fear,) I say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell, Among the folks who in this quarter dwell, If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?" The shiv'ring Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind, Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest was broke, Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spoke: "No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here." Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped, But King resolved not thus to drop the jest, To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest. He knock'd—but waited longer than before; Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound. And oft, indeed, he made the door resound. At last King hears him o'er the passage creep, The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright,— Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes, The rogue next night pursued his old career. 'Twas long indeed before the man came nigh, And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry, "Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!" |