"Married!" the feigned beggarman replied, "Then I'll not go till I have seen the bride." Then tow'rds the dining-room his course he bent, The servants quick pursued with one consent, And seized him, with intent to turn him out. "Come back, you villain; what are you about?" "About my bus'ness, to be sure," quoth he, "The room I'll enter, and the bride I'll see." "We'll see you out of doors," the servants said; And now of course, a clam'rous din they made, Just then, the bride, on hearing such a clatter, Open'd the door, to see what was the matter. This noble beggar thus obtain'd a sight Of her who erstwhile was his heart's delight, He viewed her in her nuptial garments dress'd, And did of her a glass of wine request, Which she denied--who little did suppose The ragged stranger was her wealthy spouse; Then straight into the dining-room he went, And down he sat among the guests content. Says he, "You'll grant me my request I know; A glass of wine I'll have before I go." The bride at length, complied with his request, Thus thinking to despatch the ragged guest, But when he did this glass of wine obtain, He drank and fill'd, and drank and fill'd again. The guests astonish'd and disgusted, view'd, Whilst he proceeded to be far more rude; Around the bride's fair neck he threw his arm, And gave a kiss, which did her much alarm, On him she frown'd, and threaten'd him with law, Says he, "Your threats I value not a straw: My conduct to reprove is all in vain, For what I've done I mean to do again. Madam, your bridegroom's in an awkward case; This night I do intend to take his place." And while upon her countenance he pores, The guests agree to kick him out of doors. "The deuce is in the beggarman," they cried; "He means to either beg or steal the bride." "No, no," says he, "I claim her as my own." He smil'd and then he did himself make known, Saying, "William Wentworth Blackett is my name; For my long absence I'm much to blame; But safe and sound I have return'd at last, So let's forgive each other all that's past." The bride did her first bridegroom recognise; With joy transported, to his arms she flies; And, whilst they tenderly each other kiss, The disappointed bridegroom they dismiss; Who inwardly did his hard case lament, Hung down his head, and out of door he went. "I'm robb'd of this fair jewel, now," thinks he; "How cruel is this tender spouse to me!" Awhile he scratched his head, then heaved a sigh, Then eyed the hall again, and wip'd his eye. Sir William freely did forgive his wife; They liv'd together till the end of life. My honest story I must now conclude, Which may by some be as a fiction view'd; But, sirs, the boots in which sir William went, Are kept in memory of that event; The very hat he wore preserv'd has been, At Bretton hall--where they may yet be seen. FOOTNOTE: