THE NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON: A LAY OF ST. THOMAS A' BECKET. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQ. You are all aware that On our throne there once sat A very great King, who'd an Angevin hat With a great sprig of broom, which he wore as a badge in it, Pray don't suppose That I'm going to prose O'er Queen Eleanor's wrongs, or Miss Rosamond's woes, The tale may be true, But between me and you, With the King's escapades I'll have nothing to do; If for health, or "a lark," You should ever embark In that best of improvements on boats since the Ark, You may see some half way 'Twixt the pier at Herne Bay And Margate, the place where you're going to stay, In this Harry Broom's reign, L Among them there was one, To describe as I ought I should never have done, He was tall and upright, His complexion was what you'd denominate light, His bright sparkling eye Rose a finely-arch'd eyebrow of similar dye, He was very devout, With his Aves and Paters-and, oh, such a Knout Shows in his diet! he Dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety, To declare Father Dick -So they call'd him, "for short"-was a "Regular Brick," And among Now Nature! 'tis said, Is a comical jade, the fantastical tricks she has play'd, Was the making our good Father Richard a brother, As like him in form as one pea's like another; He was tall and upright, His complexion was what you'd denominate light, He'd a bright sparkling eye Of the hazel, hard by Rose a finely-arch'd sourcil of similar dye; He'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a Cupidon lip, But here, it's pretended, . The parallel ended; In fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended, Shook their heads if you mention'd his brother, the Knight. There was nothing but sport And High Jinks going on, night and day, at "the Court," He drinks and he eats Of choice liquors and meats, And he goes out on We'n'sdays and Fridays to treats, And is wont to come quarrelsome home in his No Paters, no Aves; An absolute slave he's cups. To tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies; That "Robert and Richard were two pretty men," More might have been laid To the charge of the Knight than was openly said, 'Twas whisper'd he'd rob, Which would stamp him no "Brick," but a "Regular Snob," (An obsolete term, which at this time of day, We should probably render by Mauvais Sujet.) Now if here such affairs Get wind unawares, They are bruited about, doubtless, much more "down stairs," Where old Nick has a register-office, they say, With Commissioners quite of such matters au fait. Of course, when he heard What his people averr'd Of Sir Robert's proceedings in deed and in word, "Twas with more than surprise O'er the numberless items, oaths, curses, and lies, It's a great deal too strong, I'd no notion this bill had been standing so long- To his bailiff, said Nick, "I'm 'ryled,' and 'my dander's up,'' Go a-head slick' Up to Kent--not Kentuck-and at once fetch away A snob there-I guess that's a Mauvais Sujet. "One De Birchington, Knight 'Tis not clear quite What his t'other name is-they've not enter'd it right, "But he's tall and upright, About six feet in height, His complexion, I reckon, you'd calculate light, "Then his eye, and his lip, Are marks your attention can't easily slip; That same afternoon, Father Dick, who as soon Would "knock in," or "cut chapel," as jump o'er the moon, Morning dawn'd-'twas broad day, Still no Prior!-the tray With his muffins and eggs went untasted away- They examined his cell, They peep'd down the well, They went up the tow'r and look'd into the bell, "Dear me! Dear me! Why, where can he be? He's fall'n over the cliff?-tumbled into the sea?" He turns as he speaks, The "Court-Lodge" he seeks, Which was known then, as now, by the queer name of Quekes, When he spied the good Prior in the paddock-stone dead! Alas! 'twas too true! And I need not tell you, In the convent his news made a pretty to do; Through all its wide precinct so roomy and spacious, They sent for the May'r And the Doctor, a pair Of grave men who began to discuss the affair, And so hot they went to't, That things seem'd to threaten a serious emeute, Quoth his Saintship, "How now? I should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row? Pray what's all this clatter Here a Monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter, 66 ""Tis all dickey with poor Father Dick!-he's no more!" "How!-what?" says the Saint, "Yes he is-no he aint-* He can't be deceased--pooh! it's merely a faint, Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter, "His time is not out; Some blunder no doubt, It shall go hard but what I'll know what it's about I shan't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's Had a hand in't; it savours of one of his tricks." Cantice for "is not." St. Thomas, it seems, had lived long enough in the County to pick up a few of its Provincialisms. |