Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir, That nice little boy who sits 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, 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 Styles 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 Cooked up, that the "_fête_ was postponed _sine die_, The dear little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope Being taken alarmingly ill with the croop!" 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 stamped, and he stormed--then his language!--Oh dear! 'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear! And he cried to the button-decked 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,