 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
To Miss Barham.
August 15, 1841.
My dear little Fanny,—I take up my pen
Just to say that we set off on Monday, at ten,
By the Magnet to Margate, and call on the way
At a place which I think you remember, Herne Bay;
For there, if I recollect rightly, the guide,
Betsy Homersham, sous'd you so much that you cried.
We've not yet engaged any lodgings; the Halls,
Who have been there some time, and live close to St. Paul's,
289
In suiting a number like ours, or e'en double.
But then you'll observe, since as yet we don't know
To what part of the town we may happen to go,
And cannot decide till at least we so far get,
You had better direct to us, “Post Office, Margate,”
A mode of arrangement for want of a better
Which I mean to adopt in the case of each letter.
I sent down a salmon to-day, and I hope
That it will not discredit the fishmonger, Pope,
But I deeply regret things should turn out so cross
That I could not procure one poor lobster for sauce;
But somehow or other so few had come in,
Pope had not a single one, neither had Lynn;
So be sure, my dear Fanny, you make my excuses,
And mind and write soon and let's know what the news is;
Your mammy will write to you soon, and your bird
Sings so loud and so long, it is really absurd;
Mary Anne's grown quite fond of the creature, indeed
She does nothing but stuff it with sugar and seed.
I really don't think I have aught more to tell,
And the postman below is come ringing his bell,
So God bless you, my dear, I shall now say “Farewell.”
Write to one of us soon—if you ask me, I'd rather
You'd address, of the two,—Your affectionate Father.
R. H. B.
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