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 |  |
This page attempts not to explore, As Æsop did in days of yore,
How beasts and birds and reptiles thought,
And by what potency were taught
To think and speak and act like men,
Which they don't now,—if they did then.
Monkeys, it seems, might grin and vapour,
There cut a joke, here cut a caper;
The Lion might be call'd to rule, An Elephant might keep a school;
The Snake, with gratitude at strife, Might strike at his preserver's life;
While from base, mean and selfish ends,
The Hare might lose her many friends;
And thus the animals dispense The sterling rules of common-sense.
But well-fed Punch was form'd by nature,
A mere instinctive, useful creature;
Who on the road or in the stable, Would not have answer'd for a fable:
Sure-footed, subject to no whim, And sound alike in wind and limb;
Who both the whip and spur obey'd, In the proportion they were laid;
But if he happen'd not to feel An angry hint from thong or steel,
He, by degrees, would seldom fail T'adopt the gallop of a snail.
Just now, then it may be suppos'd That, while his drowsy rider doz'd,
He thought he had a right to go As slow as any horse could do:
But still he'd change his forward way, To ease a passing cart of hay,
Or to the right or left would pass, To snatch a tempting tuft of grass.
The sun grew hot and Punch was dry, A rippling brook was running by:
Towards the clear stream his way he bent,
Snuff'd the cool air, and in he went;
When after having drank his fill
His feet were cool'd, and he stood still;
When, feeling neither whip nor spur,
He thought there was no hint to stir.
Pat did the self-same footsteps trace,
And his horse sought the self-same place.
Thus, side by side, the cattle stood,
Knee deep within the crystal flood;
While fast asleep the riders sat, The Doctor here, and there was Pat:
And how long on the river's lap They might have thus enjoy'd their nap,
It is not worth the while to guess, It would, of course, be more or less;
But a tinker on his ass, Happ'ning that morn, that way to pass,
Could not but think it rather droll To see them sleeping cheek-by-jowl:
Nor could he check his rude, gruff laughter,
To hear them snoring o'er the water:
Then with a piece of solid metal, He struck with force a hollow kettle,
And instant the resounding stroke, The master and his valet woke.
With the sudden noise they started, And from their wat'ry station parted,
The Doctor thought a shot was fired,
And from what quarter he enquired;
The Tinker said, “You need not fear, No enemy, good Sir, is here:
I travel all the country round, To fill up holes, where holes abound.
I am a trav'ling tink'ring stranger,
Who thought, Sir, that you were in danger;
For had you met an overthrow In the mill-dam that is below,
'Twould have been labour all in vain, To get your Honour out again:
And as I could not reach to shake you,
I made the noise I did to wake you.”
“I thank you, friend,” the Doctor said,
“Kindness like yours should be repaid;
It is a debt, I freely own, So, Patrick, give him half-a-crown.”
Poor Tink'ring Tom was quite delighted,
Who look'd not to be thus requited,
For all he did, and all he spoke, Was in the way of saucy joke:
But so it was, and off he went Singing his way, with loud content;—
While his brass kettles told the tale,
As they resounded through the vale.
“How long,” says Pat, “we might have stay'd
In the quick waters' running shade,
And why my brown horse and your mare
Chose to take a position there,
Now I'm awaken'd, makes me stare:
For howsoe'er we slept or doz'd
An' please you, Sir, our eyes were clos'd.”
“Pat,” said the Doctor, “you're a fool;
The morn was hot, the river cool,
The beasts were early out and dry, And drowsy too, like you and I,
For I throughout the night before, Had not slept out a second hour:
—But let us on our journey haste, The breakfast-time advances fast,
And I've within a certain power That tells it me besides the hour.
Nor must you, Pat, forget to rig In its first honours, my last wig,
Renew its curls, and thus restore Its form to what it was before;
Its air Canonic was beset By that vain, whimsical Coquette,
To whom I owe resentment yet;
Though, as a Christian, it were better To forgive her and forget her.”
How beasts and birds and reptiles thought,
And by what potency were taught
303
Which they don't now,—if they did then.
Monkeys, it seems, might grin and vapour,
There cut a joke, here cut a caper;
The Lion might be call'd to rule, An Elephant might keep a school;
The Snake, with gratitude at strife, Might strike at his preserver's life;
While from base, mean and selfish ends,
The Hare might lose her many friends;
And thus the animals dispense The sterling rules of common-sense.
But well-fed Punch was form'd by nature,
A mere instinctive, useful creature;
Who on the road or in the stable, Would not have answer'd for a fable:
Sure-footed, subject to no whim, And sound alike in wind and limb;
Who both the whip and spur obey'd, In the proportion they were laid;
But if he happen'd not to feel An angry hint from thong or steel,
He, by degrees, would seldom fail T'adopt the gallop of a snail.
Just now, then it may be suppos'd That, while his drowsy rider doz'd,
He thought he had a right to go As slow as any horse could do:
But still he'd change his forward way, To ease a passing cart of hay,
Or to the right or left would pass, To snatch a tempting tuft of grass.
The sun grew hot and Punch was dry, A rippling brook was running by:
Towards the clear stream his way he bent,
Snuff'd the cool air, and in he went;
When after having drank his fill
His feet were cool'd, and he stood still;
When, feeling neither whip nor spur,
He thought there was no hint to stir.
Pat did the self-same footsteps trace,
And his horse sought the self-same place.
Thus, side by side, the cattle stood,
Knee deep within the crystal flood;
While fast asleep the riders sat, The Doctor here, and there was Pat:
And how long on the river's lap They might have thus enjoy'd their nap,
It is not worth the while to guess, It would, of course, be more or less;
But a tinker on his ass, Happ'ning that morn, that way to pass,
Could not but think it rather droll To see them sleeping cheek-by-jowl:
Nor could he check his rude, gruff laughter,
To hear them snoring o'er the water:
Then with a piece of solid metal, He struck with force a hollow kettle,
And instant the resounding stroke, The master and his valet woke.
With the sudden noise they started, And from their wat'ry station parted,
The Doctor thought a shot was fired,
And from what quarter he enquired;
The Tinker said, “You need not fear, No enemy, good Sir, is here:
I travel all the country round, To fill up holes, where holes abound.
I am a trav'ling tink'ring stranger,
Who thought, Sir, that you were in danger;
For had you met an overthrow In the mill-dam that is below,
'Twould have been labour all in vain, To get your Honour out again:
And as I could not reach to shake you,
I made the noise I did to wake you.”
304
“Kindness like yours should be repaid;
It is a debt, I freely own, So, Patrick, give him half-a-crown.”
Poor Tink'ring Tom was quite delighted,
Who look'd not to be thus requited,
For all he did, and all he spoke, Was in the way of saucy joke:
But so it was, and off he went Singing his way, with loud content;—
While his brass kettles told the tale,
As they resounded through the vale.
“How long,” says Pat, “we might have stay'd
In the quick waters' running shade,
And why my brown horse and your mare
Chose to take a position there,
Now I'm awaken'd, makes me stare:
For howsoe'er we slept or doz'd
An' please you, Sir, our eyes were clos'd.”
“Pat,” said the Doctor, “you're a fool;
The morn was hot, the river cool,
The beasts were early out and dry, And drowsy too, like you and I,
For I throughout the night before, Had not slept out a second hour:
—But let us on our journey haste, The breakfast-time advances fast,
And I've within a certain power That tells it me besides the hour.
Nor must you, Pat, forget to rig In its first honours, my last wig,
Renew its curls, and thus restore Its form to what it was before;
Its air Canonic was beset By that vain, whimsical Coquette,
To whom I owe resentment yet;
Though, as a Christian, it were better To forgive her and forget her.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |