They are gone,--save one, Robin alone! Robin, whose high state of civilisation Precludes all idea of aërostation, And who now has no notion Of more locomotion Than suffices to kick, with much zeal and devotion, Right and left at the party, who pounced on their victim, And maul'd him, and kick'd him, and lick'd him, and prick'd him, As they bore him away scarce aware what was done, And believing it all but a part of the fun, Hic--hiccoughing out the same strain he'd begun, "Jol--jolly companions every one!" * * * * * Morning grey Scarce bursts into day Ere at Tappington Hall there's the deuce to pay; The tables and chairs are all placed in array In the old oak-parlour, and in and out Domestics and neighbours, a motley rout, Are walking, and whispering, and standing about; And the Squire is there In his large arm-chair, Leaning back with a grave magisterial air; In the front of a seat a Huge volume, called Fleta, And Bracton, a tome of an old-fashion'd look, And Coke upon Lyttleton, then a new book; And he moistens his lips With occasional sips From a luscious sack-posset that smiles in a tankard Close by on a side-table--not that he drank hard, But because at that day, I hardly need say, The Hong Merchants had not yet invented How Qua, Nor as yet would you see Souchong or Bohea At the tables of persons of any degree: How our ancestors managed to do without tea I must fairly confess is a mystery to me; Yet your Lydgates and Chaucers Had no cups and saucers; Their breakfast, in fact, and the best they could get, Was a sort of a _déjeûner à la fourchette_; Instead of our slops They had cutlets and chops, And sack-possets, and ale in stoups, tankards, and pots; And they wound up the meal with rumpsteaks and 'schalots. Now the Squire lifts his hand With an air of command, And gives them a sign, which they all understand, To bring in the culprit; and straightway the carter And huntsman drag in that unfortunate martyr, Still kicking, and crying, "Come,--what are you arter?" The charge is prepared, and the evidence clear, "He was caught in the cellar a-drinking the beer! And came there, there's very great reason to fear, With companions,--to say but the least of them,--queer; Such as Witches, and creatures With horrible features, And horrible grins, And hook'd noses and chins, Who'd been playing the deuce with his Reverence's binns."