In Britain’s Isle there stands a town,
And once, ’tis said of high renown
The ruined tower, the broken wall
The gate, fast nodding to its fall.
The empty fosse — the abbey lone
Neglected, mouldering, stone from stone,
The frequent fanes once throng’d ’tis said
But now deserted and decayed
The bridge begun — but never ended
Past state, with modern meanness blended
Are shown to prove what it has been
But more they prove, how changed the scene.
The natives of this ancient city
Fame says, are wondrous wise and witty
And that the praise is well applied
The following facts will soon decide
Once on a time their grave Lord Mayor
Sat down a sumptuous feast to share,
Asked for a toast — forgot his station
And gave Himself and Corporation!
A walk there is, where belles repair,
Both for the music and the air,
But this, as by its banks it goes,
Old Ouze in winter overflows,
And hence an alderman renowned
For learning, wit, and sense profound
Here plants (and wisely, who can doubt!)
A quickset hedge, to keep him out!
His church, some Christian’s pious zeal
Had given of bells a noble peal,
But whensoe’er they rang — the people
Feared lest they should ring down the steeple;
Yet with these noble bells to part,
Would break each honest churchman’s heart,
So lest misfortune should betide,
To lower the steeple they decide.
The work agreed, was soon begun,
Went briskly on; at length was done.
The bells new scoured and shining bright
Prepared to reassume their station
And ring for their own elevation;
The churchmen found, ah woe the day!
Ponderous their debt, their pocket light,
And workmen pressing for their pay,
So reck’ning thus, without the host,
At once their cash and labour lost,
They sold the bells, to pay the cost!
At cards this worthy alderman
Of wit as great a proof display’d
He held no tenth card in his hand
Except the nine of hearts, he said.
But most in law their wit is seen
As will a well known tale declare
And angry swain with pitchfork keen
His neighbour gor’d — no matter where
The man for the assault was tried
The jury eager to decide
(Perchance they smelt their distant dinner)
As guiltless first acquit the sinner,
A different doom the judge required
Again the twelve wise men retired
“Manslaughter,” they at length declare
The slaughter’d man was standing there,
Prepar’d the first to quiz the court
And make their sage decrees his sport.
But stop — what means this long preamble,
My Pegasus seems prone to ramble,
’Tis mine to sing the Garter’s glory
Not of their wisdom, make the story.
A youth in this famed city dwelt
Nor yet had Cupid’s malice felt
Until to rouse the latent flame
A youthful maid from London came
It needs not here her charms declare
As ladies always must be fair,
But if we may believe renown
’Tis said, the gentle youth was Brown.
This damsel oft demurely sitting
Bequiled the evening hours with knitting
Two garters of unsullied hue
Beneath her snowy fingers grew,
Her labour long this youth had eyed,
And sighed and looked, and looked and sighed!
And oft in vain preferred his prayer,
The garters to possess and wear,
Refused, he long had tried to find
For whom this envied gift designed
To maid was deaf to all he said
Went knitting on, nor raised her head
At last howe’er he found the truth
The gift was for some happier youth
Oh who can tell his jealous pain
Which oft unable to restrain
Her hand he pulled — the loops let down
Drew on himself her angry frown
Yet still he hoped when these were done
To see a pair for him begun.
But still the maid obdurate spurned
Her suppliant, and to town returned,
Not Homer’s pen could now declare
The anguish of the youth’s despair,
Thro’ all the town the tale was spread,
Fame added too, that he was dead,
Hung in a garter from his bed!
And numerous epitaphs were made.
Four months had slowly passed away,
At length came Cupid’s favoured day,
The happy morn of Valentine,
When coyest maids to love incline.
The hapless youth so long maltreated
Who at his breakfast table seated,
His bread so brown and milk so white,
No longer gave his mind delight,
On London still was fixed his thought,
When lo! the post — a packet brought.
The seal his hurried fingers break,
But oh! what words his joy can speak,
When from the opened packet rolled
Two scarlet garters wrought with gold
And in her hand distinctly traced
These lines the snowy paper graced.
*
Oh! if it is a joy to find
Our friends when present warm and kind
Yet greater far, the joy to prove
Our memory dear to those we love!
That absence strives to break in vain
And rivets still the lengthening chain.
And now at last I’ve done my song,
A tale (’tis said) should not be long
Each hearer may divine the rest,
And end it, as may like him best.