Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies including The Chessiad, a Mock-Heroic, in Five Cantos; and The Wreath of Love, in Four Cantos. By C. Dibdin, the Younger |
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TOM AND DICK.
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 | Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies |  |
25
TOM AND DICK.
AN URBIAD, OR TOWN ECLOGUE.
The sun declining cast a golden glaze,
Kennels and casements glittered with his rays;
The daily bustle of the street was o'er,
And lazy shopmen lounged at many a door.
Beneath a window, graced with curtains red,
(The tap-room window of the Royal Head),
A bench there was; a table stood before,
Which two bright pots of frothy porter bore—
Porter! for Oh! in those arcadian days
Porter was porter, and the theme of praise;
What now 'tis none have knowledge, nor can guess:
The price is greater and the praise is less!
Behind the table, on the bench, reposed
Two love-sick swains, whose daily toil was closed:—
One, Tom the carman, t' other, cooper Dick,
Who to their beauties as their beer would stick.
They talk'd of sweethearts—toasted each his own—
And toasted oft, as by the score was shown.
Brimful, at length, of beauty and of beer,
Each challenged each to sing the maid most dear;
Each staked a gage that he'd his mistress prove
Fairest and truest, and sing best of love.
Then Tom, the lengthy, first in numbers tried,
And Dick, the dumpy, to the strain replied;
Then with alternate measures they proceed:
To hear had heavenly been! sublime to read!
Thus Tom began, while listeners throng'd around,
And when sense fail'd were gratified by sound.
Tom.
Kennels and casements glittered with his rays;
The daily bustle of the street was o'er,
And lazy shopmen lounged at many a door.
Beneath a window, graced with curtains red,
(The tap-room window of the Royal Head),
A bench there was; a table stood before,
Which two bright pots of frothy porter bore—
Porter! for Oh! in those arcadian days
Porter was porter, and the theme of praise;
What now 'tis none have knowledge, nor can guess:
The price is greater and the praise is less!
Behind the table, on the bench, reposed
Two love-sick swains, whose daily toil was closed:—
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Who to their beauties as their beer would stick.
They talk'd of sweethearts—toasted each his own—
And toasted oft, as by the score was shown.
Brimful, at length, of beauty and of beer,
Each challenged each to sing the maid most dear;
Each staked a gage that he'd his mistress prove
Fairest and truest, and sing best of love.
Then Tom, the lengthy, first in numbers tried,
And Dick, the dumpy, to the strain replied;
Then with alternate measures they proceed:
To hear had heavenly been! sublime to read!
Thus Tom began, while listeners throng'd around,
And when sense fail'd were gratified by sound.
This whalebone whip, by rings of white embraced,
And knotted cord upon its apex placed,
Bought but to-day, and yet uncrack'd, I stake,
With friendly challenge, for my Sukey's sake.
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This polish'd adze—how dull to Lucy's eyes!
Keen as her tongue—I offer for a prize
Of rival triumph: never hoop it cut;
But carved her name upon a beechen butt;
Freely I stake it, to contend with thee,
And Ben the potboy shall the umpire be.
Tom.
O, Dick! agreed; for Ben's a boy of mind,
Clean as his pots, and as his porter kind;
More brains has Ben than half who bid him wait;
His legs are bandy—but his ways are straight:
With lips impartial he'll decide no doubt—
“I will,” cried Ben, “so now, my bucks, sing out.”
Tom.
The lovely Sukey, object of my wish,
Surpasses all who trace the streets with fish;
None can with such an air the price reveal,
Displace an oyster, or undress an eel;
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No lily muscles with her skin compete;
Her lips like prawns; red mullet is a foil
To cheeks that shame the lobster fresh from boil;
Sound as a roach; the whiting of her trade,
And never thornback match'd my beauteous maid;
Nor trout nor smelt so delicate can prove:
The loveliest white-bait for the feast of love!
Dick.
Through London streets her trade my Lucy plies,
Impels a barrow, and “Choice fruit!” she cries;
That barrow's shafts how oft I've wish'd to be,
Clasp'd by those hands, and press'd, dear maid! by thee;
The ruddy apple by her cheek looks pale;
To match her lips ripe red-heart cherries fail;
Those lips for richness melting peaches shame,
And, to her kisses, figs no sweetness claim.
When sloes she sells, but “fine ripe damsons” cries,
The sloes are brown, compared with her black eyes;
“Cherries” she cries, when those to sell are best,
“Fine bleeding hearts!” and mine among the rest;
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Her voice is primer than the fruit she sells.
Tom.
When, in the season, Sukey “Oysters!” cries,
'Tis like the mermaid's voice from seas that rise;
From seas that rise, and those who listen dish,
And those on fish who fed make food for fish:
Her various voice abounds in sharps and flats—
O could you hear her when she's crying “Sprats!”
Dick.
One day were nuts in Lucy's barrow laid,
And I stood by, soft-gazing on the maid;
A nut she crack'd—her teeth such jobs can do,
Since they ne'er ache, for Lucy she loves true—
A nut she crack'd—her teeth can crack 'em well—
A double kernel nestled in the shell;
One half she ate, then, sweetly tender, she
Kiss'd t' other half, and smiling gave it me.
Tom.
One day, when Sukey op'ning oysters stood,
Her blue eyes bright'ning with a mirthful mood,
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She ate the oyster and gave me the shell:
To share twin kernels custom maids will move,
But none play tricks save with the lad they love.
Dick.
Young Joe the footman, once at Peckham fair,
When he, and I, and lovely Luce were there,
A fairing bought her; I had bought one too;
His a red top-knot, mine a 'kerchief blue;
When both were offer'd, with a bashful look,
She waived the top-knot and the 'kerchief took;
Doubted I had, this set my heart at rest;
Mine she preferr'd, though, surely, 'twas the best:
Yet knots, for fairings when accepted, prove
Hints of true lovers' knots and wedded love.
Tom.
I've bought my Sukey fairings by the score,
She always took them, and then spelt for more;
Her hints were answer'd: woman's wish beguiles;
And each new present brought more winning smiles.
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The more you feed them they more lovely look.
Young Tim, the drayman, offer'd her his arm—
Tim, who chants songs that must a dray-horse charm—
His arm away, with scornful twist, she flung;
She lost her temper, but she found her tongue:
Tim cursed her clapper! so I knock'd him down;
All are my foes on whom my fair may frown.
Her clapper, Dick! yet in her praise it tells;
What more melodious than a peal of bells?
Dick.
On May-day last—the morning wore her best—
Neat as a new-made firkin I was dress'd;
Luce, tempting as her barrow dress'd to sell
Prime fruit, appear'd a perfect nonpareil;—
We went a Maying—Oh! what fun we had—
Nay Tom, ne'er smile, we nothing did was bad;
But on that morning 'twas, O Tom! my bliss
Box'd ears to catch, because I caught a kiss:
My ears look'd red; how pain'd appear'd her heart!
A kiss she gave me to relieve my smart;
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Thomas—but, mum!—'tis wrong to kiss and tell.
Tom.
Dick, between friends, it isn't right to boast,
But Sukey's kisses long have I engross'd:
Sweeter her kisses than the sugar'd loads
I daily cart to grocers' throng'd abodes;
Sweeter her breath than new hay from the mart,
Which feeds the cattle that adorn my cart.
Dick.
My Lucy's kisses—O the rich regale!
Sweeter than sweetwort are of home-brew'd ale,
For which new casks I form; to cheer my toil
On Luce I think, and many a stave I spoil.
A cask I made her, fruit to store, and this
Procured, O Thomas! the consenting kiss.
O, had you seen her round me, blushing, fling
Her willing arms, while whisp'ring, “Buy the ring!”
The ring I bought, next door to the Three Cans,
And on next Sunday we put up the bans.
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Fortune to me superior luck has cast;
Our bans were put up, Dick, on Sunday last:
Own then, dear Dick, my happy lot the best,
Who one week sooner shall than you be bless'd.
Dick.
Wedlock's a lott'ry, Tom; I fortune thank!
A prize I've drawn; may you ne'er draw a blank!
My heart misgives me, and my tongue rebels;
But friendship's fervour heart and tongue repels.
Beware, O Tom!—I saw, but three days back,
Young Tim the brewer, dress'd genteel, in black;
Upon his arm hung Sue, in white; O, think!
Green was her bonnet, and the lining pink;
Before, black feathers flutter'd in the wind;
A flower'd silk shawl fell all in folds behind;
They're all the fashion now; and Tim, I know,
Bought it last week: laughing, I saw them go
O'er Hornsey fields; not once the sight I miss'd;
I saw him kiss her—
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Kiss her?
Dick.
Yes, they kiss'd.
Tom.
Pshaw! Dick, you're dreaming: you but saw behind;
Mistook her person, as you wrong her mind;
'Twas Jane, the milk-girl,—they're alike in shapes;
Tim courted Jane on finding Sue sour grapes.
But I had dumb been till the day of death—
In others' matters I ne'er waste my breath—
Had you not spoken thus; 'tis now my place:
Your Lucy's caught by Joey's liv'ry lace—
Nay, t' other night I watch'd 'em to the play;
Saw them return, returning I that way;
Then saw them, fondly cooing, both go in
The wine vaults, where, no doubt, they drank:—no sin
In drinking, Dick; but genteel manners prove
That maids scorn drams but with the man they love.
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“O, Tom! unpossible—you can but joke.”
Here interposing, bandy Ben thus spoke:—
Ben.
“Well have you sung; but now your lays decline;
And ‘list, O list,’ contending swains, to mine:
Rude is my voice, more harsh may be my lay;
Yet hear me sing, or, more correctly, say—
Yet saying's singing in poetic bowers;
Why not in strects poetical as ours?
Tom may be right, and Dick no wrong may hold;
Dick has told truth, and Tom no falsehood told;
I heard both tales, and more, which I'll impart,—
All fact, no fiction—though it grieves my heart.
Alas! to-morrow Lucy weds with Joe;
And Sukey married Tim a week ago!
Then bear misfortune as brave heroes do,
And keep your tempers and your wagers too.”
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Each stared, confounded; and both sigh'd, convinced;
Shook hands and parted, too o'erwhelm'd to speak,
And—got new sweethearts by that same day week.
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