 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
218
The Country Seat.
[_]
Summer Hill—near Tunbridge, the seat formerly of the Lord Muskerry, and now (1833) of James Alexander, Esq. The noble proprietor (Muskerry, not Alexander) entertained Charles the Second and his whole court here—teste John Britton, whose valuable history of Tunbridge Wells consult for an account of Lord Chancellor Mansfield, and the inhuman Judge Jeffries, who disgraced himself so at the trial of Charles the First, as the worthy antiquary asserts, in direct contradiction to those who maintain that the name of the regicide president was Bradshaw, and that he was afterwards married to Miss Mary Anne Tree, of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.—(T. I.)
O Summer Hill! if thou wert mine
I'd order in a pipe of wine,
And ask a dozen friends to dine!
I'd order in a pipe of wine,
And ask a dozen friends to dine!
In faith, I would not spare the guineas,
But send for Pag—and other—ninnies,
Flutes, hautboys, fiddles, pipes, and tabors,
Hussars with moustaches and sabres,
Quadrilles, and that grand waltz of Weber's,
And give a dance to all my neighbours;
And here I'd sit and quaff my fill
Among the trees of Summer Hill.
But send for Pag—and other—ninnies,
Flutes, hautboys, fiddles, pipes, and tabors,
Hussars with moustaches and sabres,
219
And give a dance to all my neighbours;
And here I'd sit and quaff my fill
Among the trees of Summer Hill.
Then, with pleased eye, careering slowly
O'er beech-crown'd ridge and valley lowly,
We'd drain a cup to thee, Old Rowley!—
To thee, and to thy courtly train,
Once tenants of this fair domain,
Soft Stewart, haughtiest Castlemaine.
Pert Nelly Gwynne, gay Molly Davis,
And many another Rara Avis.
E'en now, 'midst yonder leafy glade,
Methinks I see thy royal shade
In amplitude of wig array'd;
Near thee, thy rival in peruke,
Stands Buckingham's uproarious Duke,
With Tory Hamilton and Killegrew,
And Rochester, that rake till ill he grew;
When, to amend his life and turn it,
He firmly promised Dr. Burnet—
In time, let's hope, to make old Nicholas,
Still watching for our sins to tickle us,
Lose all his pains, and look ridiculous.
With visage rather grave than merry,
See, too, thy noble host Muskerry
Leads forth,—to crown and end the stanza,
Thy consort, Catharine of Braganza.
O'er beech-crown'd ridge and valley lowly,
We'd drain a cup to thee, Old Rowley!—
To thee, and to thy courtly train,
Once tenants of this fair domain,
Soft Stewart, haughtiest Castlemaine.
Pert Nelly Gwynne, gay Molly Davis,
And many another Rara Avis.
E'en now, 'midst yonder leafy glade,
Methinks I see thy royal shade
In amplitude of wig array'd;
Near thee, thy rival in peruke,
Stands Buckingham's uproarious Duke,
With Tory Hamilton and Killegrew,
And Rochester, that rake till ill he grew;
When, to amend his life and turn it,
He firmly promised Dr. Burnet—
In time, let's hope, to make old Nicholas,
Still watching for our sins to tickle us,
Lose all his pains, and look ridiculous.
220
See, too, thy noble host Muskerry
Leads forth,—to crown and end the stanza,
Thy consort, Catharine of Braganza.
Oh, Alexander! loftier far
Now culminates thy natal star,
Than his of old, mine ancient crony,
Thy namesake, erst of Macedony
(Unrivall'd,—save, perhaps, by Boney).
Oh, happier far, in thy degree,
Art thou, although a conqueror he,
Whilst thou art but an Ex-M.P.
Oh, happier far! propitious Fate,
Making thee lord of this estate,
Dubb'd thee in verity “The Great;”
Yea, far more blest, my Alexander,
Art thou than that renowned commander!
Now culminates thy natal star,
Than his of old, mine ancient crony,
Thy namesake, erst of Macedony
(Unrivall'd,—save, perhaps, by Boney).
Oh, happier far, in thy degree,
Art thou, although a conqueror he,
Whilst thou art but an Ex-M.P.
Oh, happier far! propitious Fate,
Making thee lord of this estate,
Dubb'd thee in verity “The Great;”
Yea, far more blest, my Alexander,
Art thou than that renowned commander!
Thou ne'er was led through wanton revelling
Those sylvan scenes to play the devil in,
And I, for one, shouldst thou invite us,
Would never dread the fate of Clytus;
For midst these shades, so loved by Grammont,
Thou never yet thy friends did gammon,
By calling of thyself “Young Ammon.”
No frolic dame of easy virtue,
E'er made you drink enough to hurt you;
And then, with impudence amazing,
Bade you set house and all a-blazing
('Tis hard to say which works the quicker
To make folks noodles—love or liquor;
But oh, it is a fearsome thing,
When both combine to make a king
Descend to play the part of Swing!)
I dare be sworn thou dost not sigh,
Much less put finger in thine eye,
For other worlds,—no, Alexander,
I know thou art not such a gander;
This is thy globe—here “toujours gai,”
Thy motto still—though, well-a-day!
Old Sarum's put in Schedule A.
Those sylvan scenes to play the devil in,
And I, for one, shouldst thou invite us,
Would never dread the fate of Clytus;
For midst these shades, so loved by Grammont,
Thou never yet thy friends did gammon,
By calling of thyself “Young Ammon.”
221
E'er made you drink enough to hurt you;
And then, with impudence amazing,
Bade you set house and all a-blazing
('Tis hard to say which works the quicker
To make folks noodles—love or liquor;
But oh, it is a fearsome thing,
When both combine to make a king
Descend to play the part of Swing!)
I dare be sworn thou dost not sigh,
Much less put finger in thine eye,
For other worlds,—no, Alexander,
I know thou art not such a gander;
This is thy globe—here “toujours gai,”
Thy motto still—though, well-a-day!
Old Sarum's put in Schedule A.
O Summer, Summer, Summer Hill!
Fain would I gaze and linger still—
But, ah! the moon her silver lamp
Uprears, the grass is getting damp—
And hark! the curfew's distant knell,
Is told by Doctor Knox's bell—
I go, to join my wife and daughters,
Drinking those nasty-tasted waters.
O Summer Hill! retreat divine!
Ah me! I cannot but repine
Thou art not,—never will be mine—
I haven't even got the wine!
Fain would I gaze and linger still—
But, ah! the moon her silver lamp
Uprears, the grass is getting damp—
And hark! the curfew's distant knell,
Is told by Doctor Knox's bell—
I go, to join my wife and daughters,
Drinking those nasty-tasted waters.
222
Ah me! I cannot but repine
Thou art not,—never will be mine—
I haven't even got the wine!
Tunbridge Wells, Sept. 30, 1833.
| The Ingoldsby Lyrics | |