The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
 |
 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
The Doctor, highly flatter'd, bow'd, And marks of due obedience shew'd,
Then promis'd with to-morrow's sun The curious work should be begun,
Nor would he go till it were done.
The morning came, with utmost care The Rev'rend Artist did prepare
With all his pencil's skill to trace The beauties of this favour'd place;
When Lady Bounty, to beguile His labours with approving smile,
Stood on the terrace-wall to view The Doctor's progress as he drew:
When, at once furious and alarm'd,
And with most uncooth weapons arm'd,
Led on by Pat, a noisy crew Did a wild swarm of bees pursue,
And, with a loud and tinkling sound Of rustic cymbals chasing round
The flying rovers, eager strive To tempt them to the offer'd hive:
But all these sounds were made in vain;
They did their humming flight maintain,
And, spite of pan and pot and kettle,
Chose on the Doctor's head to settle.
—It must be thought indeed most strange,
That this wing'd populace, who range
In search of sweets, should hope to swig The liquid nectar in a wig;
And there though learning might be crown'd,
That food ambrosial would be found:
But still it seems the Royal Bee Would thither lead her colony.
—The Doctor felt no small alarm
As he beheld the approaching swarm;
And when their buzzing threats surround him,
The fears of such a foe confound him,
Who with a thousand stings might wound him.
The screaming Lady did entreat That he would not forsake his seat,
But by all means avoid a riot, And let them take their course in quiet;
As then, she from experience knew, No harm, no evil would ensue.
The Doctor said, “while I have breath,
I'll run and not be stung to death.”
Then off his hat and wig he threw, And up the terrace steps he flew;
While Patrick with impetuous tread,
Flung the hive towards his Master's head,
To save his bald pate from the chace Of this same flying stinging race.
Away they hurried down the slope,
Which was so steep they could not stop;
Syntax went first and Patrick after,
And both plung'd headlong in the water,
Which, in a sweeping, close meander,
Beneath the terrace chose to wander:
Though no harm did this fall bestow, But being wet from top to toe:
And that was small, when ev'ry care Of the kind Lady would prepare
What the good Doctor's state required: All he could ask for or desir'd,
Was ready to obey his call; And ev'ry soul in Bounty-Hall
Did the officious service ply, So that he soon was warm and dry,
Talk'd o'er in terms of frolic ease His curious battle with the bees,
And made his tumble in the water A source of fun and gen'ral laughter.
His hat and wig the honeyed race Had not found a fit resting place,
Or as retir'd and snug retreats
Where they might lodge ambrosial sweets;
So that unspoil'd they did remain When to their owner brought again.
—His troubled toil he soon renew'd, And with such eager zeal pursued
Th'allotted task—that ere the sun
Had gone its round, his work was done.
—Syntax had made the chaste design
With equal space and measur'd line,
Which would each pleasing form admit Where'er the spot best suited it.
The statues now in order plac'd The niches on the terrace grac'd,
And sculptur'd vases were display'd To range along the balustrade:
While the sad willow's pendent bough Hangs o'er the solemn urn below,
And the sarcophagus is seen Amid the cypress' darksome green.
But it appears, this was not all That Syntax did at Bounty-Hall:
His pencil promis'd to impart The utmost power of its art,
That Madam's Boudoir might abound
With drawings of the scenes around.
The Lady in no common measure,
To him thus spoke her grateful pleasure:
Then promis'd with to-morrow's sun The curious work should be begun,
Nor would he go till it were done.
The morning came, with utmost care The Rev'rend Artist did prepare
With all his pencil's skill to trace The beauties of this favour'd place;
When Lady Bounty, to beguile His labours with approving smile,
Stood on the terrace-wall to view The Doctor's progress as he drew:
When, at once furious and alarm'd,
And with most uncooth weapons arm'd,
Led on by Pat, a noisy crew Did a wild swarm of bees pursue,
And, with a loud and tinkling sound Of rustic cymbals chasing round
The flying rovers, eager strive To tempt them to the offer'd hive:
But all these sounds were made in vain;
They did their humming flight maintain,
And, spite of pan and pot and kettle,
Chose on the Doctor's head to settle.
—It must be thought indeed most strange,
That this wing'd populace, who range
223
And there though learning might be crown'd,
That food ambrosial would be found:
But still it seems the Royal Bee Would thither lead her colony.
—The Doctor felt no small alarm
As he beheld the approaching swarm;
And when their buzzing threats surround him,
The fears of such a foe confound him,
Who with a thousand stings might wound him.
The screaming Lady did entreat That he would not forsake his seat,
But by all means avoid a riot, And let them take their course in quiet;
As then, she from experience knew, No harm, no evil would ensue.
The Doctor said, “while I have breath,
I'll run and not be stung to death.”
Then off his hat and wig he threw, And up the terrace steps he flew;
While Patrick with impetuous tread,
Flung the hive towards his Master's head,
To save his bald pate from the chace Of this same flying stinging race.
Away they hurried down the slope,
Which was so steep they could not stop;
Syntax went first and Patrick after,
And both plung'd headlong in the water,
Which, in a sweeping, close meander,
Beneath the terrace chose to wander:
Though no harm did this fall bestow, But being wet from top to toe:
And that was small, when ev'ry care Of the kind Lady would prepare
What the good Doctor's state required: All he could ask for or desir'd,
Was ready to obey his call; And ev'ry soul in Bounty-Hall
Did the officious service ply, So that he soon was warm and dry,
Talk'd o'er in terms of frolic ease His curious battle with the bees,
And made his tumble in the water A source of fun and gen'ral laughter.
His hat and wig the honeyed race Had not found a fit resting place,
Or as retir'd and snug retreats
Where they might lodge ambrosial sweets;
So that unspoil'd they did remain When to their owner brought again.
—His troubled toil he soon renew'd, And with such eager zeal pursued
Th'allotted task—that ere the sun
Had gone its round, his work was done.
—Syntax had made the chaste design
With equal space and measur'd line,
Which would each pleasing form admit Where'er the spot best suited it.
The statues now in order plac'd The niches on the terrace grac'd,
And sculptur'd vases were display'd To range along the balustrade:
While the sad willow's pendent bough Hangs o'er the solemn urn below,
And the sarcophagus is seen Amid the cypress' darksome green.
But it appears, this was not all That Syntax did at Bounty-Hall:
His pencil promis'd to impart The utmost power of its art,
That Madam's Boudoir might abound
With drawings of the scenes around.
The Lady in no common measure,
To him thus spoke her grateful pleasure:
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |