| |
| I AND my cousin Wildair met | |
| And tossed a pot together;— | |
| Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed, | |
| For it was nipping weather. | |
| ’Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench | 5 |
| Set all the inn folk laughing! | |
| They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers | |
| At kissing and at quaffing. | |
| |
| “Oddsfish!” says Dick, “the sack is rare, | |
| And rarely burnt, fair Molly; | 10 |
| ’T would cure the sourest Crop-ear yet | |
| Of Pious Melancholy.” | |
| “Egad!” says I, “here cometh one | |
| Hath been at ’s prayers but lately.” | |
| —Sooth, Master Praise-God Barebones stepped | 15 |
| Along the street sedately. | |
| |
| Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow, | |
| And touch of his Toledo, | |
| Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue | |
| And bade him say his Credo; | 20 |
| Next crush a cup to the King’s health, | |
| And eke to pretty Molly; | |
| “’T will cure your Saintliness,” says Dick, | |
| “Of Pious Melancholy.” | |
| |
| Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned; | 25 |
| My heart stood still a minute: | |
| Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang, | |
| Or else the devil’s in it! | |
| For me, I care not for old Noll, | |
| Nor all the Rump together. | 30 |
| Yet, faith! ’t is best to be alive | |
| In pleasant Xmas weather. | |
| |
| His worship, Barebones, grimly smiled; | |
| “I love not blows nor brawling; | |
| Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge!” | 35 |
| And, zooks! he sent Dick sprawling! | |
| When Moll and I helped Wildair up, | |
| No longer trim and jolly,— | |
| “Feel’st not, Sir Dick,” says saucy Moll, | |
| “A Pious Melancholy?” | 40 |
| |
