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 |  |
Enrapt in Contemplation's pow'r, Syntax forgot the fleeting hour;
Till looking round, he saw the sun Had past his bright meridian run.
A shepherd-boy he now espied, Strolling along the highway side;
And, on his wand'ring flock intent, The stripling whistled as he went.
“My honest lad, perhaps you know, What distance I shall have to go,
Before my eager eyes may greet
Some place where I may drink and eat.”
“Continue, Master, o'er the Down,
And soon you'll reach the neighb'ring town:
In less, I think, than half an hour, You'll pass by yonder lofty tow'r:
Keep onward by the church-yard wall,
When you will see an house of call;
The sign's a Dragon—there you'll find
Eating and drinking to your mind.”
Across the Down the Doctor went,
And towards the Church his way he bent.
“Thus,” Syntax said, “when man is hurl'd
Upwards and downwards in the world;
When some strong impulse makes him stray
And he, perhaps, has lost his way,
The Church,—Religion's holy seat,
Will guide to peace his wand'ring feet!
But, hark! the death-bell's solemn toll Tells the departure of a soul;
The Sexton, too, I see prepares The place where ends all human cares.
And, lo, a crowd of tombs appear! I may find something curious here;—
For oft poetic flowers are found To flourish in sepulchral ground.
I'll just walk in to take a look, And pick up matter for my book:
The living, some wise man has said, Delight in reading of the dead.
What golden gains my book would boast,
If I could meet a chatty ghost,
Who would some news communicate Of its unknown and present state:
Some pallid figure in a shroud, Or sitting on a murky cloud;
Or kicking up a new-made grave,
And screaming forth some horrid stave;
Or bursting from the hollow tomb, To tell of bloody deeds to come;
Or adverse skeletons embattling,
With ghastly grins and bones a rattling;
Something to make the misses stare, And force upright their curly hair;
To cause their pretty forms to shake,
To make them doubt if they're awake:
And thus to tonish folks present, The Picturesque of Sentiment!
But 'tis, I fear, some hours too soon—
Ghosts slumber all the afternoon:
I'll ask the Sexton if, at night, I may perchance pick up a sprite.”
Till looking round, he saw the sun Had past his bright meridian run.
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And, on his wand'ring flock intent, The stripling whistled as he went.
“My honest lad, perhaps you know, What distance I shall have to go,
Before my eager eyes may greet
Some place where I may drink and eat.”
“Continue, Master, o'er the Down,
And soon you'll reach the neighb'ring town:
In less, I think, than half an hour, You'll pass by yonder lofty tow'r:
Keep onward by the church-yard wall,
When you will see an house of call;
The sign's a Dragon—there you'll find
Eating and drinking to your mind.”
Across the Down the Doctor went,
And towards the Church his way he bent.
“Thus,” Syntax said, “when man is hurl'd
Upwards and downwards in the world;
When some strong impulse makes him stray
And he, perhaps, has lost his way,
The Church,—Religion's holy seat,
Will guide to peace his wand'ring feet!
But, hark! the death-bell's solemn toll Tells the departure of a soul;
The Sexton, too, I see prepares The place where ends all human cares.
And, lo, a crowd of tombs appear! I may find something curious here;—
For oft poetic flowers are found To flourish in sepulchral ground.
I'll just walk in to take a look, And pick up matter for my book:
The living, some wise man has said, Delight in reading of the dead.
What golden gains my book would boast,
If I could meet a chatty ghost,
Who would some news communicate Of its unknown and present state:
Some pallid figure in a shroud, Or sitting on a murky cloud;
Or kicking up a new-made grave,
And screaming forth some horrid stave;
Or bursting from the hollow tomb, To tell of bloody deeds to come;
Or adverse skeletons embattling,
With ghastly grins and bones a rattling;
Something to make the misses stare, And force upright their curly hair;
To cause their pretty forms to shake,
To make them doubt if they're awake:
And thus to tonish folks present, The Picturesque of Sentiment!
But 'tis, I fear, some hours too soon—
Ghosts slumber all the afternoon:
I'll ask the Sexton if, at night, I may perchance pick up a sprite.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |