The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
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 | The English Dance of Death |  |
'Twas, as the Village Annals say,
One ev'ning in the month of May,
When, as Jack Marrow dosing sat,
He yielded to the stroke of Fate;
And some confusion spread around
When He fell, senseless, to the ground;
But Death appear'd—and, on his barrow,
Trundled away with poor Jack Marrow.
Nor was the party much dismay'd:
They plied their jugs, with “Who's afraid!”—
—The Curate, who had, in his day,
Beheld so many wheel'd away,
Calmly look'd on, nor felt much sorrow,
For what would bring him Fees to-morrow.
Besides, his Dame had made it known,
She wish'd to mend her black silk gown;
And the shrewd Parson had in view
The power to do it; as he knew
That scarfs and hatbands did possess
The means of aiding Madam's dress.
So he look'd calmly on, when Death
Put Master Marrow out of breath.
—But the fat Landlord shook his head—
“If that same Gem'man should be dead,
I ought to cry—for, to my cost,
The best of customers I've lost;
And if he don't this bout escape,
Egad, I'll hang the Goat in crape.”—
—Thus, let our trade be what it will.
Int'rest is apt to sway us still,
And he in this world will go down,
Who to another yields his own.
One ev'ning in the month of May,
When, as Jack Marrow dosing sat,
He yielded to the stroke of Fate;
And some confusion spread around
When He fell, senseless, to the ground;
But Death appear'd—and, on his barrow,
Trundled away with poor Jack Marrow.
Nor was the party much dismay'd:
They plied their jugs, with “Who's afraid!”—
—The Curate, who had, in his day,
Beheld so many wheel'd away,
Calmly look'd on, nor felt much sorrow,
For what would bring him Fees to-morrow.
103
She wish'd to mend her black silk gown;
And the shrewd Parson had in view
The power to do it; as he knew
That scarfs and hatbands did possess
The means of aiding Madam's dress.
So he look'd calmly on, when Death
Put Master Marrow out of breath.
—But the fat Landlord shook his head—
“If that same Gem'man should be dead,
I ought to cry—for, to my cost,
The best of customers I've lost;
And if he don't this bout escape,
Egad, I'll hang the Goat in crape.”—
—Thus, let our trade be what it will.
Int'rest is apt to sway us still,
And he in this world will go down,
Who to another yields his own.
But Mrs. Marrow strait appears,
In all the rage of grief and tears,
With what's all this? What are you doing?
And where, you Scarecrow, are you going?
—Madam, your Husband's time is come;
And, as you see, He's going home.
His eyes are now for ever closing—
—You lie, you thief, He's only dosing;
And, if you rob me of the rest,
I'll take his wig, for that's his best.—
—This instant let your manners mend,
Or I'll the fatal stroke suspend:
If you continue thus to scold,
I will your widowhood with-hold;
A worser evil shall betide you,
He shall snore ten more years beside you.
And if with me you play the shrew,
He still shall live to bury you.—
—It was my grief, Sir, pray excuse me:
Your pardon, Sir, do not refuse me.
I feel that I have done amiss;
But such a cruel sight as this,
So sad, so unexpected too,
How could a wife, so fond, so true,
Without heart-rending feelings view!
And when on such a sight we gaze,
Why, Sorrow knows not what it says:
Ah, vain would be the Doctor's skill;
So I submit me to your will.—”
“—Go on before, prepare the way
For this same heavy load of clay:
Discard his wig, and seize his riches:
You now may wear the Dead Man's Breeches.”
In all the rage of grief and tears,
With what's all this? What are you doing?
And where, you Scarecrow, are you going?
104
And, as you see, He's going home.
His eyes are now for ever closing—
—You lie, you thief, He's only dosing;
And, if you rob me of the rest,
I'll take his wig, for that's his best.—
—This instant let your manners mend,
Or I'll the fatal stroke suspend:
If you continue thus to scold,
I will your widowhood with-hold;
A worser evil shall betide you,
He shall snore ten more years beside you.
And if with me you play the shrew,
He still shall live to bury you.—
—It was my grief, Sir, pray excuse me:
Your pardon, Sir, do not refuse me.
I feel that I have done amiss;
But such a cruel sight as this,
So sad, so unexpected too,
How could a wife, so fond, so true,
Without heart-rending feelings view!
105
Why, Sorrow knows not what it says:
Ah, vain would be the Doctor's skill;
So I submit me to your will.—”
“—Go on before, prepare the way
For this same heavy load of clay:
Discard his wig, and seize his riches:
You now may wear the Dead Man's Breeches.”
| The English Dance of Death | |