Now David Pryce Had one darling vice; Remarkably partial to anything nice, Nought that was good to him came amiss, Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss! Especially ale-- If it was not too stale I really believe he'd have emptied a pail; Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales; To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W. That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots, With a couple more soakers, Thoroughbred smokers, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers And, long after day had drawn to a close, And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;" While David himself, to a Sassenach tune, Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon! What have we with day to do? Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!"-- At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door: And then came that knock, And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!" For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three! That self-same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan; And often among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out, Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout." That horrid word "Spout" No sooner came out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling! You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise, (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock), But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!" Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast; But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient, So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head; It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But whatever it was,--whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain,--but _this_ I can, When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!