At Bletchington there lived a wight
Surnamed the Man of Path
As thin as famed La Mancha’s knight
As tall as him of Gath
’Tis said the thing was six feet, ten
In height from top to toe
And it was of the class of men
By others called a beau
It had (’tis said) a tongue to talk
A mouth with which to grin
On two hind paws it used to walk
With legs so long and thin
The gods had given two paws more
With which (tho’ strange ’tis true)
Since beaux have ceased to walk on four
It knew not what to do
So one hung dangling at his side
Bedecked with whip or cane
And t’other always was employ’d
In twirling its watch chain
Whene’er the female train appeared
The creature was on duty
And whispered soft things in their ears
About true Love and Beauty
Each word as soft as Butter flows
And sweet as honey too
And quite as harmless heaven well knows
As three times skimm’d sky blue
To all alike it told its tales
And followed Stanhope’s rules
Who bids us when our small talk fails
To sit and grin (like fools)
It various Novels reads full oft
And many a tuneful lay
From silence it steals its speeches soft
And compliments so gay
And when it wishes most to shine
’Twill sit at home and write
A thousand speeches superfine
To spark away at Night
Once at a rout it chanced to take
Its speeches from its Poke
And found a Set Oh! dire mistake
Which it before had spoke
The dire mistake the Ladies rue
For not one tale it told
It could not think of one thing new
And these were all too old
And so alas poor luckless wight
Alack and well aday
It sat in silence all the night
And grinn’d the hours away.