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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ROBERT AND BOB;
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 | Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies |  |
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ROBERT AND BOB;
OR, THE POLITIC PUBLICAN.
“Life's full of deception,” the sages have said,But to prove it requires not a Solomon's head;
'Tis a vice so familiar, that some have believed
We but live for deceiving and being deceived;
But, while with keen practice we trick other elves,
'Tis no more than completely deceiving ourselves.
A publican once—'tis a fact I advance—
Whose politics always embraced the main chance,
Two taps in his cellar had ever at call;
The one fill'd with strong beer, the other with small.
His custom was good, though bad customs had he,
And one of those customs my subject shall be.
While his guests in their sober perceptions were clear,
He gave them the best, when they call'd for their beer;
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He managed to put off the small for the strong;
And did it adroitly; but how no one dream'd,
For all “fair and above board” his management seem'd;
No whisp'ring to wife, or the pot-boy, he used,
Nor perceptible mean which men's reason abused,
To convey his intent, at each thirsty soul's call,
Whether beverage strong should be brought him, or small.
A pot-boy he had, quite expert at a job;
His appellative Robert—diminutive, Bob.
He instructed this lad, when he call'd—lucky thought!—
“A pot of beer, Robert,” the strong should be brought;
But a “pot of beer, Bob,” if he heard mine host call,
He was then to the drinker to carry the small.
One night, when a club—noble fellows to cram—
Had supp'd on salt-herrings and fine bacon-ham,
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And Robert or Bob was each minute the cry;
Till “mine host,” finding all were full primed, from their talk,
To double the profit on each double chalk,
Bethought him that Robert had had a hard job;
So resolved all the rest should be managed by Bob.
Bob! Bob! Bob! resounded, and pot followed pot,
The guests were so dry, and the night was so hot.
At length cried a toper, “Here, landlord, come here,
And take a good tug at your own humming beer.”
The landlord, at Highgate once sworn, thought it wrong
To tipple small beer (as he thought it) for strong;
But, “need must when”—et cet'ra—he drank—sad mishap!
And found it was Robert had been at the tap.
He grinn'd, shook his head; when a man call'd for beer,
And mine host bawl'd out, “Bob, you young monkey, come here.”
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And save hapless Bob from a knock on the pate.
He cried, “I want Bob, for this gem man wants drink.”
He glanced at the guests, and then gave her a wink,
Which, being translated, meant, “here's a fine job!
They're all drinking Robert, though I call'd for Bob.”
His wife took the pot, rather posed what to do;
When he, in a passion, cried, “Who sent for you?
Fetch Bob”—when she answer'd him, “Don't be a bore;
Why, Bob has been out for this hour or more.”
| Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies | |