I'm quite as fat as Lambert was, Or any old maid's spaniel; And when I walk along the street They cry, "A second Daniel!" And if I go into a shop Of tailor, hatter, glover, They always open _both_ the doors: My dancing days are over.
My college chums oft jeer at me, And cry, "Lord, what a porpus! Who'd take you for a Johnian? You seem to be of Corpus!" The stage-coachmen all look as if They wished me at Hanóver: The safety cabs don't think me safe: My dancing days are over.
My great pier glass, that used to show My waist so fine and thin; Now, turn whichever way I will, Won't take my body in. My form, that once a parasol Would always amply cover, A gig umbrella now requires: My dancing days are over.
In vain my hand I offer now; Away each damsel stalks; Chalk'd floors no longer may I walk, So I must walk my chalks. For me there is no woman-kind: None wait me now for lover. Maid, widow, wife, all fly—they know My dancing days are over!
It's very odd, and even so, and why I can't discover, That I should wait, at Cupid's gate, the knocking of a lover; There's old Miss Young, with wily tongue, has tickled Captain Sly; The wrinkled frump will bear his stump, to get a Leg-a-cy. There's little Brown, I set him down for sure among the shymen, He is, altho' so short a beau, drawn in the knot of _High-men_. And Corp'ral Scout, to buy him out, the Widow does not falter, It hurts her pride that he should ride so long without a _haltar_: But pert Miss Green, just turn'd sixteen, she need not use such speed, To make a hash with Count Moustache—'tis Baby-work indeed.
Judge Blackstone was a learned judge, As wise as ever sat, He wore his head within his wig, His wig within his hat.
Judge Blackstone made a learned book On subjects, and on kings, And many reasons sage he gave For many foolish things.
And many a wily way he found For lawyers to get fat in, And common sense, and English sound, He smothered in dog-latin.
And simple ways made strange to see, As clients, to their loss tell; And many things that law may be, Altho' they be not Gos-pel.
But since (see Job) we are but worms, Our destiny we fill, No doubt, in being gobbled up By some long lawyer's bill.
28 Hare Hunting ends. "_Nemo est hæres viventis._"—BLACKSTONE.