The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose Now First Collected with a Prefatory Memoir by his Nephews W. E. and Sir Bartle Frere |
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[“The mystery of the Turnspit in the Wheel] |
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| II. |
 | The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose |  |
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[“The mystery of the Turnspit in the Wheel]
“The mystery of the Turnspit in the Wheel,
He understood not but admired with zeal.”[OMITTED]
He understood not but admired with zeal.”[OMITTED]
“No longer he regrets his native groves,
His wonted haunt and his accustom'd rill;
He views the bakehouse, scullery, and stoves,
And from the leathern jack delights to swill.
He saw the Baker putting in some loaves,
And being quick and eager in his will,
He thrust him in, half-way, for an experiment—
It was not malice, it was only merriment.
[OMITTED]
His wonted haunt and his accustom'd rill;
He views the bakehouse, scullery, and stoves,
And from the leathern jack delights to swill.
He saw the Baker putting in some loaves,
And being quick and eager in his will,
It was not malice, it was only merriment.
“The monks had purchased for their chapel floor
Some foreign marbles, squares, of white and black;
It lay where it was left, upon the shore,
Till Ascopart convey'd it, on his back,
Through miry roads, eleven leagues and more,
Poked, like backgammon men, into a sack;
Went to the wood and kill'd a brace of bears,
Then drank six quarts of ale, and so to prayers.
Some foreign marbles, squares, of white and black;
It lay where it was left, upon the shore,
Till Ascopart convey'd it, on his back,
Through miry roads, eleven leagues and more,
Poked, like backgammon men, into a sack;
Went to the wood and kill'd a brace of bears,
Then drank six quarts of ale, and so to prayers.
“Besides all this he mended their mill dam,
Digging a trench to turn aside the flood;
And brought huge piles of wood to drive and ram,
Jamm'd in with stones to make it sound and good.
The story looks a little like a flam,
But in five days he built five stacks of wood,
To serve the convent for five winters' fire,
As high as their own convent-church or higher.
Digging a trench to turn aside the flood;
And brought huge piles of wood to drive and ram,
Jamm'd in with stones to make it sound and good.
The story looks a little like a flam,
But in five days he built five stacks of wood,
To serve the convent for five winters' fire,
As high as their own convent-church or higher.
“But most he show'd the goodness of his heart
In slaughtering swine and oxen for the year;
From dawn to sunset there was Ascopart,
With sweat, and blood, and garbage in a smear.
The butcher pointed out the rules of art—
‘I'll smite 'um,’ quoth the Giant, ‘never fear.’
The clapper of the great old broken bell
He bang'd about him with, and down they fell.
In slaughtering swine and oxen for the year;
From dawn to sunset there was Ascopart,
With sweat, and blood, and garbage in a smear.
The butcher pointed out the rules of art—
‘I'll smite 'um,’ quoth the Giant, ‘never fear.’
The clapper of the great old broken bell
He bang'd about him with, and down they fell.
“Pigs, when their throats were cut, amused him most—
All cantering and curvetting in a ring;
To see them as they jostled and they cross'd,
He swore it was a pastime for a king.—
Laugh'd and laid wagers and cried out, ‘ware post!’
And as the monks were teaching him to sing,
He criticized their squeaking, and found fault—
‘Come Pig! now for a holding note in Alt.’
All cantering and curvetting in a ring;
To see them as they jostled and they cross'd,
He swore it was a pastime for a king.—
Laugh'd and laid wagers and cried out, ‘ware post!’
And as the monks were teaching him to sing,
He criticized their squeaking, and found fault—
‘Come Pig! now for a holding note in Alt.’
“With such a size, and mass of limbs, and trunk,
And his loins girded with a hempen string,
He look'd, and might have been, a lordly monk;
Therefore I think it an unlucky thing
That at their vespers he was always drunk,
And that he never would be taught to sing,
But only saunter'd from the kitchen fire,
To howl and make a hubbub in the quire.
And his loins girded with a hempen string,
He look'd, and might have been, a lordly monk;
Therefore I think it an unlucky thing
That at their vespers he was always drunk,
And that he never would be taught to sing,
To howl and make a hubbub in the quire.
| The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose | |