FullReads

Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man
As ever lived–at least at number Four,
In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown’s first floor,
At fifty pounds,–or thereabouts,–per ann.
The Lady reckon’d him her best of lodgers,
His rent so punctually paid each quarter,–
He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers–
Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers–
Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter.–
Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable–
Still on one failing tenderly to touch,
The Gentleman did like a drop too much,
(Tho’ there are many such)
And took more Port than was exactly portable.
In fact,–to put the cap upon the nipple,
And try the charge,–Tom certainly did tipple.
He thought the motto was but sorry stuff
On Cribb’s Prize Cup–Yes, wrong in ev’ry letter–
That “D—-d be he who first cries Hold Enough!”
The more cups hold, and if enough, the better.
And so to set example in the eyes
Of Fancy’s lads, and give a broadish hint to them,
All his cups were of such ample size
That he got into them.

Once in the company of merry mates,
In spite of Temperance’s if’s and buts,
So sure as Eating is set off with plates,
His Drinking always was bound up with cuts!
Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels
Bring very sad catastrophes about;
Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,
Not to forget the Gout.
Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim
To grow to Strasburg’s regulation size,
As if for those hepatical goose pies–
Or out of depth the head begins to swim–
Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!
‘Twas Christmas–he had drunk the night before,–
Like Baxter, who so “went beyond his last”–
One bottle more, and then one bottle more,
Till oh! the red-wine Ruby-con was pass’d!
And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,
With many a circumbendibus to spare,
For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,
To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way.

Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter,
And all the nerves–(and sparrows)–in a twitter,
Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:
The hands, o’er all, are members that make motions,
A sort of wavering, just like the ocean’s,
Which has its swell, too, when it’s getting up–
An awkward circumstance enough for elves
Who shave themselves;
And Simpson just was ready to go thro’ it,
When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass–
He jump’d–and who alive would fail to do it?–
To see however it had come to pass,
One section of his face as green as grass!
In vain each eager wipe,
With soap–without–wet–hot or cold–or dry,
Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye
One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!
Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,
Quaking, and quite absorb’d in a deep study,–
But verdant and not brown,–
What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?

Indeed it was a very novel case,
By way of penalty for being jolly,
To have that evergreen stuck in his face,
Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.

“All claret marks,”–thought he–Tom knew his forte–
“Are red–this color CANNOT come from Port!”

One thing was plain; with such a face as his,
‘Twas quite impossible to ever greet
Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,
Altho’ ’twas such a parti-colored phiz!
As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,
The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,
With “Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please–
Unless it comes too high–
Vere ought a feller, now, to go to buy
The t’other half, Sir, of that ‘ere green cheese?”
His mind recoil’d–so he tied up his head,
As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;
Of course with feelings far from the serene,
For all his future prospects seemed to be,
To match his customary tea,
Black, mixt with green.