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 |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
At early hour the following day Syntax proceeded on his way,
Until they reach'd a shady isle Where all the gen'rous virtues smile,
Those virtues which had long possess'd
A mansion in Ned Easy's breast;
Who here enjoy'd his tranquil lot, By the gay, busy world forgot.
—Ned in his early life was known Through all the purlieus of the town,
And took, 'tis said, no common measure,
Of what the laughing world calls pleasure.
He also had a warrior been, And many a bloody field had seen;
Had pass'd the salt wave o'er and o'er,
And swelter'd on the sultry shore;
Had bravely sought his country's foe In vales of ice, on hills of snow;
True to his country, which he serv'd,
He ne'er from rigid honours swerv'd,
That honour was his brightest aim, Nor has his life e'er lost the name;
But when peace gave the joyous word
To sheath the sharp and blood-stain'd sword,
The soldier laid his trappings by T'enjoy a life of privacy,
And sought the tranquil calm retreat Of his retir'd, paternal seat,
Where, in sweet peace and rural pride,
The 'Squire, his father, liv'd and died.
Here Ned with good, sound common-sense,
Health, mirth and ample competence,
Laughs at the busy world, and all That fashion's votaries pleasure call:
Here all his various wand'rings cease, Here all his labours rest in peace.
His mirth is pure, with harmless wit, Nor is he shy of using it;
And though not bred in learned college,
He has a useful store of knowledge;
While cheerful, bounteous, frank and free, He beams with hospitality.
Good-humour ever seems to cheer him,
And makes all happy who come near him:
His very name will oft beguile A cheerless thought, and cause a smile.
Nay it is true that since he married,
Not one fond hope of his miscarried.
And that is rare, you must agree,
For wives, 'Squire Ned has married three:—
Nor has, as yet, the growing train
Of boys and girls e'er caus'd him pain.
'Twas nine, as the clock struck the hour,
When Syntax reach'd the mansion door.
The swelling hills that rose around
Appear'd with sylvan beauty crown'd;
The lawns display'd a charming scene
Of waving surface cloth'd with green,
While the lake spread its waters clear
With glittering sun-beams here and there;
And many a white, expanding sail Receiv'd the impulse of the gale.
Syntax.—
“O Nature bright! how can it be,
When man beholds thy charms, that he Can be insensible to thee!
Whene'er he casts his upward eye To the vast, blue ethereal sky,
Or turns it to the wond'rous robe That clothes the surface of the globe,
With all the expanse that man can see In boundless rich variety
Of hill and dale, of plain and flood; What by the mind is understood?
'Tis Nature tells of Nature's God!
—But still that animated thrush, Which warbles in the hawthorn bush,
Though by instinct it is he sings, Advances in the scale of things,
'Till reason doth the system close,
From which the World from Chaos rose.
Nay, there's Ned Easy, in his way, Teaching his growing boys to play,
To strike the ball, to guard the wicket, In all the mystery of cricket:
Nor can I gravely blame the plan At times to lay aside the man,
To seize the frolic, lively joy, That turns the man into the boy!”
Until they reach'd a shady isle Where all the gen'rous virtues smile,
Those virtues which had long possess'd
A mansion in Ned Easy's breast;
Who here enjoy'd his tranquil lot, By the gay, busy world forgot.
—Ned in his early life was known Through all the purlieus of the town,
And took, 'tis said, no common measure,
Of what the laughing world calls pleasure.
He also had a warrior been, And many a bloody field had seen;
Had pass'd the salt wave o'er and o'er,
And swelter'd on the sultry shore;
273
True to his country, which he serv'd,
He ne'er from rigid honours swerv'd,
That honour was his brightest aim, Nor has his life e'er lost the name;
But when peace gave the joyous word
To sheath the sharp and blood-stain'd sword,
The soldier laid his trappings by T'enjoy a life of privacy,
And sought the tranquil calm retreat Of his retir'd, paternal seat,
Where, in sweet peace and rural pride,
The 'Squire, his father, liv'd and died.
Here Ned with good, sound common-sense,
Health, mirth and ample competence,
Laughs at the busy world, and all That fashion's votaries pleasure call:
Here all his various wand'rings cease, Here all his labours rest in peace.
His mirth is pure, with harmless wit, Nor is he shy of using it;
And though not bred in learned college,
He has a useful store of knowledge;
While cheerful, bounteous, frank and free, He beams with hospitality.
Good-humour ever seems to cheer him,
And makes all happy who come near him:
His very name will oft beguile A cheerless thought, and cause a smile.
Nay it is true that since he married,
Not one fond hope of his miscarried.
And that is rare, you must agree,
For wives, 'Squire Ned has married three:—
Nor has, as yet, the growing train
Of boys and girls e'er caus'd him pain.
'Twas nine, as the clock struck the hour,
When Syntax reach'd the mansion door.
The swelling hills that rose around
Appear'd with sylvan beauty crown'd;
The lawns display'd a charming scene
Of waving surface cloth'd with green,
While the lake spread its waters clear
With glittering sun-beams here and there;
And many a white, expanding sail Receiv'd the impulse of the gale.
Syntax.—
“O Nature bright! how can it be,
When man beholds thy charms, that he Can be insensible to thee!
Whene'er he casts his upward eye To the vast, blue ethereal sky,
Or turns it to the wond'rous robe That clothes the surface of the globe,
With all the expanse that man can see In boundless rich variety
Of hill and dale, of plain and flood; What by the mind is understood?
'Tis Nature tells of Nature's God!
—But still that animated thrush, Which warbles in the hawthorn bush,
Though by instinct it is he sings, Advances in the scale of things,
'Till reason doth the system close,
From which the World from Chaos rose.
Nay, there's Ned Easy, in his way, Teaching his growing boys to play,
To strike the ball, to guard the wicket, In all the mystery of cricket:
Nor can I gravely blame the plan At times to lay aside the man,
To seize the frolic, lively joy, That turns the man into the boy!”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |