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 |  |
Just at this time the evening fair, With a soft breeze of summer air,
Dear Mrs. S--- propos'd to take A little fishing on the Lake.
Pat did the usual boat prepare, The lines and angle-rods were there,
When the sage Doctor plied the oar,
And cautious row'd along the shore.
Madam stood upright in the boat, And eager ey'd the bobbing float;
When, by what shock no one could tell, Into the flood the Lady fell:
Instant he plung'd into the wave, The darling of his life to save,
When Patrick follow'd, nothing loth,
And flound'ring, nearly drown'd them both:
But they were near the grassy shore, And all the danger soon was o'er.
The wet clothes chang'd from foot to head,
The fright dispell'd, and both in bed,
They somehow had the secret charm
To hug and keep each other warm.
The Worthies hurried down to see The mischief at the Rectory;
But, finding ev'ry thing was right,
And Ma'am recover'd from her fright,
To keep alarming thoughts away, They ask'd for some amusing play,
And soon the welcome cards were spread On either corner of the bed.
The curious scene throughout gave birth
To bursts of unexpected mirth,
'Till the kind friends, the visit over, Left them to sleep and to recover.
The following morn, as they talk'd o'er
The dangers of the day before,
Syntax began to shake and shiver, While ev'ry limb was seen to quiver:
He wish'd to treat his state with laughter:—
“O hissing hot into the water
I popp'd, 'tis true, as I may say With old Jack Falstaff in the play:
And as it harm'd not him, d'ye see, I think it cannot injure me;
Such flesh had he to work upon, And I am nought but skin and bone.”
Poor Mrs. S--- big with alarms, And all her fears and frights in arms,
Could not help saying:—“'Tis provoking!
At such a time you should be joking!”
When he with chatt'ring teeth replied,
“My love lay all your fears aside:
And as I do not feel alarm, When I'm so cold, be not so warm!”
Though he, indeed, as it appears,
Let loose his jokes to calm her fears.—
—But not a moment was delay'd, To send for neighb'ring Doctor's aid.
The Doctor in a hurry came, And found the system in a flame:
—The lancet to profusion bled, The blisters cover'd back and head
And Syntax was convey'd to bed.
When there reclin'd, his upward eye
Seem'd as commercing with the sky,
And his hand wav'd, as if to tell, This is a long and last farewell!
Torpor then o'er his senses crept, And he appear'd as if he slept;
But Death had given the final stroke,
For from that sleep he ne'er awoke:
Nor will he e'er again awake, Until Creation's self shall shake,
And the last Trump its silence break,
To call him, with a life renew'd, To the bright guerdon of the Good.
When the good man had breath'd his last,
Poor Mrs. Syntax stood aghast,
Then laid her pale cheek to his face,
And clasp'd him in a long embrace:
Nor did she on the horror wait To contemplate the work of fate;
But to the Hall in hurry hied, With little Johnny by her side.
She told her state, pale as despair,
And fill'd the house with sorrow there.
—Thus Syntax clos'd his life's career,
With all to hope and nought to fear.—
The frequent tear still in his eyes, Worthy prepar'd the obsequies,
With all due rites to grace the end Of his belov'd, lamented friend.
O 'twas a melancholy scene When he was borne along the green;
What train of mourners did appear, And scarce an eye without a tear!
No toil the harvest fields display, It seem'd grief's mournful holiday.
The village wept—the hamlets round Crowded the consecrated ground;
And waited there to see the end Of Pastor, Teacher, Father, Friend!
—When in the cold ground he was laid,
Poor Patrick from his trembling spade
Could scarce the light dust scatter o'er
The form which he should see no more.—
—At first the bursting sorrow came In floods upon the widow'd Dame,
But, by affection's care consol'd, Unruly grief was soon controul'd:
Religion too had taught her mind Its law divine, to be resign'd:
Though, for the rankling, heart-felt wound,
A perfect cure was never found. O 'twas a loss!—The Blessing flew;
Th'enjoyment and the prospect too!
It was a tranquil calm, delight;
No glare—but ev'ry day was bright!
—Through life's long way she travell'd on,
In gloomy guise, with Little John.
The relict of the man they lov'd,
She still the Worthies' kindness prov'd;
While Dicky Bend and his fond wife
Had been and were her friends through life.—
—But, once a year, affection's claim
The Pilgrim Widow always came,
To Sommerden, to shed a tear Beside his tomb who died for her:
And Little John, as there he knelt,
Was taught to weep for what she felt!
And, as he wept he scarce knew why, Lisp'd the instinctive agony.
The Tomb near path-way side appear'd,
By Worthy's sadden'd friendship rear'd:
Near it the dark, o'erspreading yew
Sheds tears of morn and evening dew;
And, as the sculpture meets the eye,
“Alas, Poor Syntax!” with a sigh, Is read by every passer-by:
And wakes the pensive thought, sincere,
For ever sad!—for ever dear!—
My verse has now no more to tell.—
The Story's done.—SYNTAX FAREWELL!
Dear Mrs. S--- propos'd to take A little fishing on the Lake.
Pat did the usual boat prepare, The lines and angle-rods were there,
When the sage Doctor plied the oar,
And cautious row'd along the shore.
Madam stood upright in the boat, And eager ey'd the bobbing float;
When, by what shock no one could tell, Into the flood the Lady fell:
375
When Patrick follow'd, nothing loth,
And flound'ring, nearly drown'd them both:
But they were near the grassy shore, And all the danger soon was o'er.
The wet clothes chang'd from foot to head,
The fright dispell'd, and both in bed,
They somehow had the secret charm
To hug and keep each other warm.
The Worthies hurried down to see The mischief at the Rectory;
But, finding ev'ry thing was right,
And Ma'am recover'd from her fright,
To keep alarming thoughts away, They ask'd for some amusing play,
And soon the welcome cards were spread On either corner of the bed.
The curious scene throughout gave birth
To bursts of unexpected mirth,
'Till the kind friends, the visit over, Left them to sleep and to recover.
The following morn, as they talk'd o'er
The dangers of the day before,
Syntax began to shake and shiver, While ev'ry limb was seen to quiver:
He wish'd to treat his state with laughter:—
“O hissing hot into the water
I popp'd, 'tis true, as I may say With old Jack Falstaff in the play:
And as it harm'd not him, d'ye see, I think it cannot injure me;
Such flesh had he to work upon, And I am nought but skin and bone.”
Poor Mrs. S--- big with alarms, And all her fears and frights in arms,
Could not help saying:—“'Tis provoking!
At such a time you should be joking!”
When he with chatt'ring teeth replied,
“My love lay all your fears aside:
And as I do not feel alarm, When I'm so cold, be not so warm!”
Though he, indeed, as it appears,
Let loose his jokes to calm her fears.—
—But not a moment was delay'd, To send for neighb'ring Doctor's aid.
The Doctor in a hurry came, And found the system in a flame:
—The lancet to profusion bled, The blisters cover'd back and head
And Syntax was convey'd to bed.
When there reclin'd, his upward eye
Seem'd as commercing with the sky,
And his hand wav'd, as if to tell, This is a long and last farewell!
Torpor then o'er his senses crept, And he appear'd as if he slept;
But Death had given the final stroke,
For from that sleep he ne'er awoke:
Nor will he e'er again awake, Until Creation's self shall shake,
And the last Trump its silence break,
To call him, with a life renew'd, To the bright guerdon of the Good.
When the good man had breath'd his last,
Poor Mrs. Syntax stood aghast,
Then laid her pale cheek to his face,
And clasp'd him in a long embrace:
Nor did she on the horror wait To contemplate the work of fate;
But to the Hall in hurry hied, With little Johnny by her side.
376
And fill'd the house with sorrow there.
—Thus Syntax clos'd his life's career,
With all to hope and nought to fear.—
The frequent tear still in his eyes, Worthy prepar'd the obsequies,
With all due rites to grace the end Of his belov'd, lamented friend.
O 'twas a melancholy scene When he was borne along the green;
What train of mourners did appear, And scarce an eye without a tear!
No toil the harvest fields display, It seem'd grief's mournful holiday.
The village wept—the hamlets round Crowded the consecrated ground;
And waited there to see the end Of Pastor, Teacher, Father, Friend!
—When in the cold ground he was laid,
Poor Patrick from his trembling spade
Could scarce the light dust scatter o'er
The form which he should see no more.—
—At first the bursting sorrow came In floods upon the widow'd Dame,
But, by affection's care consol'd, Unruly grief was soon controul'd:
Religion too had taught her mind Its law divine, to be resign'd:
Though, for the rankling, heart-felt wound,
A perfect cure was never found. O 'twas a loss!—The Blessing flew;
Th'enjoyment and the prospect too!
It was a tranquil calm, delight;
No glare—but ev'ry day was bright!
—Through life's long way she travell'd on,
In gloomy guise, with Little John.
The relict of the man they lov'd,
She still the Worthies' kindness prov'd;
While Dicky Bend and his fond wife
Had been and were her friends through life.—
—But, once a year, affection's claim
The Pilgrim Widow always came,
To Sommerden, to shed a tear Beside his tomb who died for her:
And Little John, as there he knelt,
Was taught to weep for what she felt!
And, as he wept he scarce knew why, Lisp'd the instinctive agony.
The Tomb near path-way side appear'd,
By Worthy's sadden'd friendship rear'd:
Near it the dark, o'erspreading yew
Sheds tears of morn and evening dew;
And, as the sculpture meets the eye,
“Alas, Poor Syntax!” with a sigh, Is read by every passer-by:
And wakes the pensive thought, sincere,
For ever sad!—for ever dear!—
My verse has now no more to tell.—
The Story's done.—SYNTAX FAREWELL!
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |