The Modern Dunciad Virgil in London and Other Poems [by George Daniel] |
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TOM SHUTTLE.
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 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
244
TOM SHUTTLE.
“A LAMENTABLE TRAGEDY, MIXED FULL OF PLEASANT MIRTH.”
Tom Shuttle kept in Spital-fields a ready-furnish'd room there;
The bards of Greece and Rome, and—Brougham! illum'd him at his loom there—
He read the Penny Magazine, and talk'd of Thames and Tiber;
Of the Mechanics' Institute a regular subscriber!
He to the march of intellect, quick marching, bade defiance;
A merry cull—a miracle of poetry and science.
The bards of Greece and Rome, and—Brougham! illum'd him at his loom there—
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Of the Mechanics' Institute a regular subscriber!
He to the march of intellect, quick marching, bade defiance;
A merry cull—a miracle of poetry and science.
Miss Wilhelmina Snooks, the daughter of a stout and tall bum-
Bailiff in the bottom floor, presented Tom her Album,
To draw a head, or write a tale as tragical as Werter,
Something pretty-natural, on purpose to divert her!
Tom ow'd her one, and wrote an ode, brimful of love and sentiment;
'Twas so sublime you couldn't tell, no, what one word in twenty meant.
Bailiff in the bottom floor, presented Tom her Album,
To draw a head, or write a tale as tragical as Werter,
Something pretty-natural, on purpose to divert her!
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'Twas so sublime you couldn't tell, no, what one word in twenty meant.
Miss Snooks made caps, and furbelows, and frills for Mister Harvey,
And carried them to Ludgate Hill, safe band-box'd in a jarvey;
Now, over head and ears in love, she rants like poor Queen Dido,
And ev'ry stitch she lays aside, for one that's in her side, O!
She calls for Portia's red-hot coal, the dagger of Lucretia,
And bawls for Rosamonda's bowl of rhubarb and magnesia!
And carried them to Ludgate Hill, safe band-box'd in a jarvey;
Now, over head and ears in love, she rants like poor Queen Dido,
And ev'ry stitch she lays aside, for one that's in her side, O!
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And bawls for Rosamonda's bowl of rhubarb and magnesia!
Tom felt a sympathetic twinge, and try'd a gentle lenitive;
“Your bumps, queer file, O,” quoth Deville, “are call'd philo-progenitive!
To conquer this amativeness dewelop'd on your cranium,
With Wilhelmina go succeed, for she's your succedaneum.”
Tom tipp'd a wink, and scamper'd off like winkin, in high feather;
The parson fee'd—the wedding folks had all a feed together!
“Your bumps, queer file, O,” quoth Deville, “are call'd philo-progenitive!
To conquer this amativeness dewelop'd on your cranium,
With Wilhelmina go succeed, for she's your succedaneum.”
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The parson fee'd—the wedding folks had all a feed together!
His room with friends was over-run, his cup of bliss run over;
He took to moping—mops and brooms!—his wife took him to Dover—
The doctor recommended air, and exercise, and jaunting—
Quoth Tom, “Hang exercise and air! when, zounds! the right heir's wanting!”—
Away they tripp'd to Bagnigge Wells, to Turnham Green, and Chelsea;
Sad Wilhelmina sigh'd, “My Love I never more shall well see!”
He took to moping—mops and brooms!—his wife took him to Dover—
The doctor recommended air, and exercise, and jaunting—
Quoth Tom, “Hang exercise and air! when, zounds! the right heir's wanting!”—
Away they tripp'd to Bagnigge Wells, to Turnham Green, and Chelsea;
Sad Wilhelmina sigh'd, “My Love I never more shall well see!”
'Twas Fair time, and St. Bartlemy had got a merry touch for him;
But rattles, jews-harps, salt-boxes, horns, muffs, might be too much for him!
He quite forgot his chronic pains, among his gay old cronies;
And munch'd his supper in the pens, of mustard and polonies;
The beer bred wit and bravery, and he resolv'd to thump any
That cross'd him as he homeward reel'd, and roar'd “Whitbread and Company!”
But rattles, jews-harps, salt-boxes, horns, muffs, might be too much for him!
He quite forgot his chronic pains, among his gay old cronies;
And munch'd his supper in the pens, of mustard and polonies;
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That cross'd him as he homeward reel'd, and roar'd “Whitbread and Company!”
He reach'd his room at two o'clock, the candles in the casement,
Foretold the livers by their lights, were all in queer amazement!
Such hurry, scurry, mobbing, sobbing, down stairs, ay, and tearing up!
“Here's h-ll and Tommy now to do;” cries Tom, “my wife is flaring up!”
Ah! what a sight did he behold, how ghostily and dreadful,
When peeping through the door, he threw his peepers on the bed full.
Foretold the livers by their lights, were all in queer amazement!
Such hurry, scurry, mobbing, sobbing, down stairs, ay, and tearing up!
“Here's h-ll and Tommy now to do;” cries Tom, “my wife is flaring up!”
Ah! what a sight did he behold, how ghostily and dreadful,
When peeping through the door, he threw his peepers on the bed full.
There Wilhelmina Shuttle lay, poor lamb, as dead as mutton!
Her cheek much whiter than the gown so lily-white she'd put on;
A bodkin stuck fast in her side, a letter penn'd so neatly
In German Text! bespoke her death, and told the cause completely;
“Dear Tom, you run stark mad for joy, now try a touch of sadness;
You'll find in grief a great relief—I die, to cure your madness!”
Her cheek much whiter than the gown so lily-white she'd put on;
A bodkin stuck fast in her side, a letter penn'd so neatly
In German Text! bespoke her death, and told the cause completely;
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You'll find in grief a great relief—I die, to cure your madness!”
Tom stood aghast—“'Tis love! 'tis love! how furious, fond, and fickle hers!”
And then he wrote her dad in rhyme the full and true partic'lars;
Soon after this felo-de-se, among the prime odd fellows,
His spirits rose, he rose to sing, “Old Rose, and burn the bellows!”
He cut the loom, a stroller turn'd, and in the Tale of Mystery,
He courts Miss Tree!—and so concludes our strange, eventful Hist'ry.
And then he wrote her dad in rhyme the full and true partic'lars;
Soon after this felo-de-se, among the prime odd fellows,
His spirits rose, he rose to sing, “Old Rose, and burn the bellows!”
He cut the loom, a stroller turn'd, and in the Tale of Mystery,
He courts Miss Tree!—and so concludes our strange, eventful Hist'ry.
| The Modern Dunciad | |