It's in Bolton Hall, and the Clock strikes One,
And the roast meat's brown, and the boil'd meat's done
And the barbecu'd sucking-pig's crisp'd to a turn,
And the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn;
The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice
With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
Want nothing but eating—they're all ready drest.
But where is the Host, and where is the Guest?
Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page,
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),
And the scullions and cooks, With fidgetty looks,
Are grumbling, and mutt'ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner's put back;
For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunn'd snow-flake, is spread out with care,
And the Dais is furnish'd with stool and with chair,
And plate of orfèvrerie costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there,
And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face,
And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace.
Yet where is the Host?—and his convives—where?
The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall,
He watches the large hand, he watches the small,
And he fidgets, and looks As cross as the cooks,
And he utters—a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!"
As he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?—
What can delay De Vaux and De Saye?
What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay?
What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye?
Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away?
And De Nokes, and De Stiles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey?
And De Roe? And De Doe?—
Poynings, and Vavasour—where be they?
Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son)?
Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!'
There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting!
It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!"
It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two!
And the scullions and cooks are themselves in "a stew,"
And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do,
For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,
And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,
And the fish is all spoil'd And the butter's all oil'd,
And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen,
And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen!
While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume,
And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,
And still fidgets, and looks More cross than the cooks,
And repeats that bad word, which we've soften'd to "Zooks!"
Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone,
And the large and the small hands move steadily on,
Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare,
To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,
Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir,
That nice little boy who sits there in his chair,
Some four years old, and a few months to spare,
With his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly hair,
Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.
Again, Sir Guy the silence broke,
"It's hard upon Three!—it's just on the stroke!
Come, serve up the dinner!—A joke is a joke!"—
Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,[47]
Who "his fun," as the Yankees say, everywhere "pokes,"
And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes,
Has written a circular note to De Nokes,
And De Stiles, and De Roe, and the rest of the folks,
One and all, Great and small,
Who were asked to the Hall
To dine there, and sup, and wind up with a ball,
And had told all the party a great bouncing lie he
Cook'd up, that "the fête was postponed sine die,
The dear little curly-wig'd heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croup!"
When the clock struck Three, And the Page on his knee
Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, On a servi!"
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near To partake of his cheer,
He stamp'd, and he storm'd—then his language!—Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear!
And he cried to the button-deck'd Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi,"
"Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
—The Devil take them! and the Devil take thee!
And the Devil may eat up the dinner for me!"
In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house—and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed Grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn, at the gate of the Barbican tower,
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,
And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!—such a group
As had ne'er before darkened the doors of the Scroope!
This looks like De Saye—yet—it is not De Saye—
And this is—no, 'tis not—Sir Reginald Braye—
This has somewhat the favour of Marmaduke Grey—
But stay!—Where on earth did he get those long nails?
Why, they're claws!—then, Good Gracious!—they've all of them tails!
That can't be De Vaux—why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say, a beak!—and he can't keep it still!—
Is that Poynings?—Oh Gemini!—look at his feet!!
Why, they're absolute hoofs!—is it gout or his corns
That have crumpled them up so?—by Jingo, he's horns!
Run! run!—There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford—they've all got them on!
Then their great saucer eyes— It's the Father of lies
And his Imps—run! run! run!—they're all fiends in disguise,
Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connexions,
And He—at the top there—that grim-looking elf—
Run! run!—that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself!
And now what a din Without and within!
For the court-yard is full of them.—How they begin
To mop, and to mowe, and make faces, and grin!
Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather,
And butt at each other, all eating and drinking,
The viands and wine disappearing like winking.
And then such a lot As together had got!
Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine
To calculate with, and count noses,—I ween
The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,—
Declared, when he'd made, By the said machine's aid,
Up, what's now called, the "tottle" of those he survey'd,
There were just—how he proved it I cannot divine,—
Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety, and nine,
Exclusive of Him, Who, giant in limb,
And black as the crow they denominate Jim,
With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear,
Stands forth at the window,—and what holds he there,
Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air,
And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear?
Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare
It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wig'd Heir!
Whom the nurse had forgot, and left there in his chair,
Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear!
What words can express The dismay and distress
Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess
His cursing and banning had now got him into?
That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too,
Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison
Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal" his son!—
He sobb'd, and he sigh'd, And he scream'd, and he cried,
And behaved like a man that is mad, or in liquor,—he
Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his "Vicary,"[48]
Stamped on the jasey, As though he were crazy,
And staggering about just as if he were "hazy,"
Exclaimed, "Fifty pounds!" (a large sum in those times,)
"To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs
To that window above there, en ogive, and painted,
And brings down my curly-wi'——" here Sir Guy fainted!
With many a moan And many a groan,
What with tweaks of the nose, and some eau de Cologne,
He revived,—Reason once more remounted her throne,
Or rather the instinct of Nature,—'twere treason
To Her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason,—
But what saw he then?—Oh! my goodness! a sight
Enough to have banished his reason outright!
In that broad banquet hall The fiends, one and all,
Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall,
From one to another were tossing that small,
Pretty, curly-wig'd boy, as if playing at ball:
Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue, or rush up the stair,
And bring down in safety his curly-wig'd Heir!
Well a day! Well a day! All he can say
Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away;
Not a man can be tempted to join the mélée,
E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay
Fifty pounds on demand," have, for once, lost their sway,
And there the Knight stands, Wringing his hands
In his agony—when, on a sudden, one ray
Of hope darts through his midriff!—His Saint!—Oh, it's funny,
And almost absurd, That it never occurr'd!—
"Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!—he's the man for my money!
Saint—who is it?—really I'm sadly to blame,—
On my word I'm afraid,—I confess it with shame,—
That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,—
Cut—let me see—Cutbeard?—no!—Cuthbert!—egad
St. Cuthbert of Bolton!—I'm right—he's the lad!
Oh! holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine—
Of myself I say little,—have knelt at your shrine,
And have lash'd their bare backs, and—no matter—with twine,
Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now,
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,
And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow!
Bring him back here in safety!—perform but this task,
And I'll give!—Oh!—I'll give you whatever you ask!—
There is not a shrine In the County shall shine
With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!—
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,—hasten in pity!"—
—Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies,
"It's a bargain!—but, mind, sir, The best Spermaceti!"—