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!