The Poetical Works of Horace Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

While he was laying plans for getting
The honours of the Chapeau rouge,
The Cardinal Dubois was ever fretting;
All his days and nights allotting
To bribes and schemes, intriguing, plotting,
Until his face grew yellow as gamboge,
His eyes sepulchral, dull, and gummy,
And his whole frame a walking mummy.—

Meanwhile his steward, De la Vigne,
Seem'd to be fattening on his master,
For, as the one grew lank and lean,
The other only thrived the faster,

Enjoying, as he swell'd in figure,
Such constant spirits, laugh and snigger,
That it e'en struck his Excellency,
Who call'd him up, and ask'd him whence he
Contrived to get so plump and jolly,
While he himself, a man of rank, Visibly shrank,
And daily grew more melancholy.—

“Really, my lord,” the steward said,
“There's nothing marvellous in that;
“You have a hat for ever in your head,
“My head is always in my hat.”

Dubois, too wealthy to be marr'd in all
His plots, was presently a Cardinal,
And wore what he had pined to win;
When pasquinades soon flew about,
Hinting his sconce was deeper red without,
Than 'twas within.—

Perhaps it was, but that's no matter,
The Pope, like any other hatter,
Makes coverings, not heads; and this
With its new guest agreed so well,
That he soon wore an alter'd phiz:
Ate heartily, began to swell,
Recover'd from his ails and ills,
And grew quite rosy in the gills.

'Tis strange, but true, our worthy wore
Fine robes, and wax'd both plump and fresh,
From the first moment he forswore
All pomps and appetites of flesh.—
His Eminence, on this inflation
Both of his stomach and his station,
His old Château resolved to visit,
Accompanied by one Dupin,
A sandy-headed little man,
Who daily managed to elicit

Jokes from some French Joe Miller's page,
Old, and but little of their age;
Though they drew forth as never-failing
A roar of laughter every time,
As if they were as new and prime
As those which we are now retailing!

To the Château in Languedoc;
Whole deputations
From the surrounding districts flock,
With odes, addresses, gratulations,
And long orations;
And amongst others, the Préfet
Of Miroblais,
Famed for its annual Fair of Asses,
Began a speech which, by its dull
Exordium, threaten'd to be full
As long and dry as fifty masses.

Dupin, who saw his yawning master
Somewhat annoy'd by this disaster,
And thought it might be acceptable
To quiz the bore, and stop his gabble,
Abruptly cried—“Pray, Mr. Mayor,
How much did asses fetch, last Fair?”

“Why, Sir,” the worthy Mayor replied,
As the impertinent he eyed—
“Small sandy ones, like you, might each
Sell for three crowns, and plenty too:”
Then quietly resumed his speech,
And mouth'd it regularly through.