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 |  |
“But how,” said he, “does she contrive To keep this influence alive?
And what are they who thus submit
To her strange pranks and ribald wit?”
“Good Doctor Syntax, have you been
So many years in life's strange scene,”
The Vicar said, “and ask to prove How all the various passions move?
Your experience sure can tell Who know so much and think so well,
That, where the powers of wealth abound,
There humble parasites are found;
Whose base and reptile soul will bear, If they be said a soul to share,
The humbling tricks, and be the game
Of such a witch as Tulip's dame,
Brib'd by the feed she can afford To offer at her plenteous board.
I hate her, as she loves to deal in
Pranks that betray such want of feeling.
Though wealth may this world's heaven impart,
That breast's a hell which wants a heart!
She strove one day to give me pain,
But she'll ne'er play that game again.
I let the haughty Madam see, That a poor Vicar could be free,
And stamp upon her tyranny;
Nor do I think she's free from fear Of him who is now sitting here.
She once seiz'd on my blushing daughter
To be a theme for open laughter,
But Sophy dear, who does inherit A portion of her father's spirit,
Return'd a calm but modest dressing,
For which I gave the girl my blessing.
But as the Lady, from her store, Is sometimes lavish to the poor,
Hence, as her due, respect attends,
Whene'er we meet—but there it ends.”
Syntax his rev'rend host approv'd, For 'twas the spirit which he lov'd.
—Thus having pass'd a cheerful day,
Tow'rds ev'ning he pursued his way.
As he jogg'd to his night's abode
The thoughtful trav'ler lost his road;
And as he stopp'd awhile to know The ready way he ought to go,
The distant shouts of joy were heard, But not a living soul appear'd.
At length Pat cried, “I see them come,
And 'faith, it is a harvest home.”
Said Syntax, “What a charm to see This show of glad simplicity!
How diff'rent this delightful scene
From those where we so late have been,
Where wealth dealt out its doles of folly,
Enough to make one melancholy.”
The throng'd procession now drew near,
In front the mingled groups appear
Of jovial peasants, who employ Their voices loud, in hymns of joy.
Then comes the lab'ring waggon's load,
Dragg'd on along the winding road,
Rich with the sheaves the harvest yields,
The closing bounty of the fields.
—The Farmer, joy from top to toe, With loud huzza led on the show,
While rustic music join'd the strain
Of Harvest Home, and cheer'd the plain.
—Th'enliven'd Doctor thus addrest The jolly master of the feast.
“My honest friend, I joy to see This rich reward of industry,
And may this plenty still appear To greet you many a future year,
And to your honest wish be given, The bounties of indulgent Heaven!”
He then at once declar'd his name,
Told who he was, and whence he came,
And ask'd the farmer just to show The way which he proposed to go.
“Leave, Sir,” he said, “that thought behind,
It is an awkward way to find:
To-night, I pray, no further roam,
But stay, and join our Harvest Home;
And in the morn without delay, I will conduct you on your way.
It will to us an honour be, And by my looks I trust you see
I speak with humble honesty.
All welcome and respect that's due, Shall, Rev'rend Sir, be paid to you:
Besides, Sir, and that's worth possessing,
Our feast will have your pious blessing.
O think not that the clam'rous noise
With which the peasant tells his joys,
Makes him forget to whom he owes
The plenty which the year bestows.”
Said Syntax, “No!—It is the heart
That does the grateful sense impart:
Though rude the language, if the prayer
Can trace it to its fountain there,
Howe'er or whene'er it is given,
'Twill surely reach the courts of Heaven!
—Beneath the temple of the skies You offer your glad sacrifice;
And that I join it you will see From the example set by me.”
—The dance, the music and the song, United as they came along,
And gave a spirit to the scene, Amid the gambols on the green,
—Syntax would now his skill display Among the minstrels of the day,
And ask'd a fiddle to be sought; The instrument was quickly brought:
In answer to his active hand, When he march'd on and led the band.
The joyous show in rural state, Now approach'd the mansion gate,
Where its delighted mistress stood With comely look and smiling mood;
While her three daughters fair display
Their charms with flow'rs and ribbons gay,
And sung—“With joy we see you come,
Welcome, Welcome Harvest Home!”
The rural banquet now appear'd,
Each loaded dish was loudly cheer'd;
Beef roast and boil'd, the Briton's fare, Was in abundant plenty there:
The pastry too, with walls of crust, Waited the ploughman's eager thrust;
The pudding, with its plums well-stor'd,
And many a cheesecake crown'd the board:
Nor was the custard, so renown'd As rural dainty, absent found;
While Bacchus did to Ceres pay The friendly homage of the day;
Nor did his flowing tribute fail, In copious jugs of foaming ale.
—The Sage uprose:—with solemn look
And silent preface, thus he spoke.
And what are they who thus submit
To her strange pranks and ribald wit?”
“Good Doctor Syntax, have you been
So many years in life's strange scene,”
The Vicar said, “and ask to prove How all the various passions move?
Your experience sure can tell Who know so much and think so well,
That, where the powers of wealth abound,
There humble parasites are found;
Whose base and reptile soul will bear, If they be said a soul to share,
The humbling tricks, and be the game
Of such a witch as Tulip's dame,
Brib'd by the feed she can afford To offer at her plenteous board.
I hate her, as she loves to deal in
Pranks that betray such want of feeling.
Though wealth may this world's heaven impart,
That breast's a hell which wants a heart!
She strove one day to give me pain,
But she'll ne'er play that game again.
I let the haughty Madam see, That a poor Vicar could be free,
And stamp upon her tyranny;
Nor do I think she's free from fear Of him who is now sitting here.
She once seiz'd on my blushing daughter
To be a theme for open laughter,
But Sophy dear, who does inherit A portion of her father's spirit,
Return'd a calm but modest dressing,
For which I gave the girl my blessing.
But as the Lady, from her store, Is sometimes lavish to the poor,
314
Whene'er we meet—but there it ends.”
Syntax his rev'rend host approv'd, For 'twas the spirit which he lov'd.
—Thus having pass'd a cheerful day,
Tow'rds ev'ning he pursued his way.
As he jogg'd to his night's abode
The thoughtful trav'ler lost his road;
And as he stopp'd awhile to know The ready way he ought to go,
The distant shouts of joy were heard, But not a living soul appear'd.
At length Pat cried, “I see them come,
And 'faith, it is a harvest home.”
Said Syntax, “What a charm to see This show of glad simplicity!
How diff'rent this delightful scene
From those where we so late have been,
Where wealth dealt out its doles of folly,
Enough to make one melancholy.”
The throng'd procession now drew near,
In front the mingled groups appear
Of jovial peasants, who employ Their voices loud, in hymns of joy.
Then comes the lab'ring waggon's load,
Dragg'd on along the winding road,
Rich with the sheaves the harvest yields,
The closing bounty of the fields.
—The Farmer, joy from top to toe, With loud huzza led on the show,
While rustic music join'd the strain
Of Harvest Home, and cheer'd the plain.
—Th'enliven'd Doctor thus addrest The jolly master of the feast.
“My honest friend, I joy to see This rich reward of industry,
And may this plenty still appear To greet you many a future year,
And to your honest wish be given, The bounties of indulgent Heaven!”
He then at once declar'd his name,
Told who he was, and whence he came,
And ask'd the farmer just to show The way which he proposed to go.
“Leave, Sir,” he said, “that thought behind,
It is an awkward way to find:
To-night, I pray, no further roam,
But stay, and join our Harvest Home;
And in the morn without delay, I will conduct you on your way.
It will to us an honour be, And by my looks I trust you see
I speak with humble honesty.
All welcome and respect that's due, Shall, Rev'rend Sir, be paid to you:
Besides, Sir, and that's worth possessing,
Our feast will have your pious blessing.
O think not that the clam'rous noise
With which the peasant tells his joys,
Makes him forget to whom he owes
The plenty which the year bestows.”
Said Syntax, “No!—It is the heart
That does the grateful sense impart:
Though rude the language, if the prayer
Can trace it to its fountain there,
315
'Twill surely reach the courts of Heaven!
—Beneath the temple of the skies You offer your glad sacrifice;
And that I join it you will see From the example set by me.”
—The dance, the music and the song, United as they came along,
And gave a spirit to the scene, Amid the gambols on the green,
—Syntax would now his skill display Among the minstrels of the day,
And ask'd a fiddle to be sought; The instrument was quickly brought:
In answer to his active hand, When he march'd on and led the band.
The joyous show in rural state, Now approach'd the mansion gate,
Where its delighted mistress stood With comely look and smiling mood;
While her three daughters fair display
Their charms with flow'rs and ribbons gay,
And sung—“With joy we see you come,
Welcome, Welcome Harvest Home!”
The rural banquet now appear'd,
Each loaded dish was loudly cheer'd;
Beef roast and boil'd, the Briton's fare, Was in abundant plenty there:
The pastry too, with walls of crust, Waited the ploughman's eager thrust;
The pudding, with its plums well-stor'd,
And many a cheesecake crown'd the board:
Nor was the custard, so renown'd As rural dainty, absent found;
While Bacchus did to Ceres pay The friendly homage of the day;
Nor did his flowing tribute fail, In copious jugs of foaming ale.
—The Sage uprose:—with solemn look
And silent preface, thus he spoke.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |