The Comic Reciter (1856, Glasgow)/The Farmer's Blunder
THE FARMER'S BLUNDER.
A Farmer once to London went
To pay the worthy Squire his rent;
He comes, he knocks, soon entrance gains—
Who at the door such guest detains?
Forth struts the Squire exeeeding smart;
"Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;
You've brought my rent, then."—"To a hair."
"The best of tenants, I declare."
The steward's call'd, accounts made even,
And money paid, receipt is given.
To pay the worthy Squire his rent;
He comes, he knocks, soon entrance gains—
Who at the door such guest detains?
Forth struts the Squire exeeeding smart;
"Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;
You've brought my rent, then."—"To a hair."
"The best of tenants, I declare."
The steward's call'd, accounts made even,
And money paid, receipt is given.
"Well,” quoth the Squire, "you now shall stay
And dine with me, old friend, to-day:
I've here some ladies, wondrous pretty,
And pleasant sparks, too, that will fit thee;"
Hob scratch'd his ears, and held his hat,
And said, "No, zur, two words to that,
For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze to dine
With gentlefolk zo cruel fine,
I'ze use to make (and 'tis no wonder)
In deed or word some plaguy blunder;
Zo, if your honour will permit,
I'll with your zarvants pick a bit."
And dine with me, old friend, to-day:
I've here some ladies, wondrous pretty,
And pleasant sparks, too, that will fit thee;"
Hob scratch'd his ears, and held his hat,
And said, "No, zur, two words to that,
For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze to dine
With gentlefolk zo cruel fine,
I'ze use to make (and 'tis no wonder)
In deed or word some plaguy blunder;
Zo, if your honour will permit,
I'll with your zarvants pick a bit."
"Pho," says the Squire, “it sha'nt be done,"
And to the parlour push'd him on.
To all around Hob nods and scrapes,
Not waiting-maid or butler 'scapes;
With often bidding takes his seat,
But at a distance mighty great:
Tho' often ask'd to draw his chair,
He nods, nor comes an inch more near.
By madam serv'd with body bended,
With knife and fork, and arms extended,
He reached as far as he was able,
To plate that overhung the table:
With little morsels cheats his chops,
And in the passage some he drops;
To show where most his heart inclin'd,
He talked and drank to John behind.
When drank to in the modish way,
"Your love's sufficient, zur," he'd say;
And to be thought a man of manners,
Still rose to make his awkward honours.
"Pish," says the Squire, "pray keep your sitting."
"No, no," "Hob cries, "zur, 'tis not fitting;
Tho' I'm no scholard, vars'd in letters,
I knaws my duty to my betters."
Much mirth the Farmer's ways afford,
And hearty laughs go round the board.
Thus the first course was ended well,
But at the next, ah, what befel!
The dishes now were timely plac'd,
And table with fresh luxury grac'd.
When drank to by a neigb'ring charmer,
Up, as was usual, stands the Farmer.
A wag, to carry on the joke,
Thus to the servant softly spoke—
"Come hither, Dick, step gently there,
And pull away the Farmer's chair."
'Tis done, his congee made, the clown
Draws back, and stoops to sit him down;
But by posteriors overweigh'd,
And of his trusty seat betray'd,
As men at twigs in river sprawling,
He seiz'd the cloth to save his falling.
In vain: sad fortune! down he wallow'd,
And, rattling, all the dishes follow'd.
The foplings lost their little wits,
The ladies squall'd, some fell in fits;
Here tumbled turkies, tarts, and widgeons,
And there mine'd pies, and geese, and pigeons;
A pear-pie on his belly drops,
A custard pudding meets his chops.
Zounds, what ado 'twixt belles and beaux!
Some curse, some cry, and wipe their clothes.
This lady raves, and that looks down,
And weeps and wails her spatter'd gown:
One spark bemoans his greased waistcoat,
One "Rot him," cries, "he's spoil'd my lac'd coat."
Amidst the rout, the Farmer long
The pudding suck'd and held his tongue,
At length he gets him on his breech,
And scrambles up to make his speech;
Scrapes eyes, and mouth and nostril twangs,
Then smacks his fingers, and harangues,
"Plague tak't—I'ze told ye how 'twou'd be,
Luck, here's a pickle, zur, d'ye see?
And zome, I'll warrant, that makes this chatter,
Have clothes bedaub'd with grease and batter,
That cost"—He had gone on, but here
Was stopt at once in his career.
"Peace, brute! begone," the ladies cry,
The beaux exclaim, "Fly, rascal, fly!"
"I'll tear his eyes out," squeaks Miss Dolly,
"I'll pink his soul out," roars a bully.
And to the parlour push'd him on.
To all around Hob nods and scrapes,
Not waiting-maid or butler 'scapes;
With often bidding takes his seat,
But at a distance mighty great:
Tho' often ask'd to draw his chair,
He nods, nor comes an inch more near.
By madam serv'd with body bended,
With knife and fork, and arms extended,
He reached as far as he was able,
To plate that overhung the table:
With little morsels cheats his chops,
And in the passage some he drops;
To show where most his heart inclin'd,
He talked and drank to John behind.
When drank to in the modish way,
"Your love's sufficient, zur," he'd say;
And to be thought a man of manners,
Still rose to make his awkward honours.
"Pish," says the Squire, "pray keep your sitting."
"No, no," "Hob cries, "zur, 'tis not fitting;
Tho' I'm no scholard, vars'd in letters,
I knaws my duty to my betters."
Much mirth the Farmer's ways afford,
And hearty laughs go round the board.
Thus the first course was ended well,
But at the next, ah, what befel!
The dishes now were timely plac'd,
And table with fresh luxury grac'd.
When drank to by a neigb'ring charmer,
Up, as was usual, stands the Farmer.
A wag, to carry on the joke,
Thus to the servant softly spoke—
"Come hither, Dick, step gently there,
And pull away the Farmer's chair."
'Tis done, his congee made, the clown
Draws back, and stoops to sit him down;
But by posteriors overweigh'd,
And of his trusty seat betray'd,
As men at twigs in river sprawling,
He seiz'd the cloth to save his falling.
In vain: sad fortune! down he wallow'd,
And, rattling, all the dishes follow'd.
The foplings lost their little wits,
The ladies squall'd, some fell in fits;
Here tumbled turkies, tarts, and widgeons,
And there mine'd pies, and geese, and pigeons;
A pear-pie on his belly drops,
A custard pudding meets his chops.
Zounds, what ado 'twixt belles and beaux!
Some curse, some cry, and wipe their clothes.
This lady raves, and that looks down,
And weeps and wails her spatter'd gown:
One spark bemoans his greased waistcoat,
One "Rot him," cries, "he's spoil'd my lac'd coat."
Amidst the rout, the Farmer long
The pudding suck'd and held his tongue,
At length he gets him on his breech,
And scrambles up to make his speech;
Scrapes eyes, and mouth and nostril twangs,
Then smacks his fingers, and harangues,
"Plague tak't—I'ze told ye how 'twou'd be,
Luck, here's a pickle, zur, d'ye see?
And zome, I'll warrant, that makes this chatter,
Have clothes bedaub'd with grease and batter,
That cost"—He had gone on, but here
Was stopt at once in his career.
"Peace, brute! begone," the ladies cry,
The beaux exclaim, "Fly, rascal, fly!"
"I'll tear his eyes out," squeaks Miss Dolly,
"I'll pink his soul out," roars a bully.
At this the farmer sweats through fear,
And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here,
Steals off, and cries, "Ay, kill me, then,
Whene'er you catch me here again."
So home he jogs, and leaves the Squire
To cool the sparks, and ladies' ire.
Thus ends my tale, and now I'll try
Like Prior, something to apply.
And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here,
Steals off, and cries, "Ay, kill me, then,
Whene'er you catch me here again."
So home he jogs, and leaves the Squire
To cool the sparks, and ladies' ire.
Thus ends my tale, and now I'll try
Like Prior, something to apply.
This may teach rulers of a nation,
Ne'er to place men above their station;
And this may show the wanton wit,
That whilst he bites he may be bit.
Ne'er to place men above their station;
And this may show the wanton wit,
That whilst he bites he may be bit.