JACK DOBSON, honest son of tillage, The Toby Philpot of his village, Laugh'd and grew fat, Time's gorgon visage braving; To hear him cackle at a hoax, Or new edition of old jokes, You'd think a Roman Capitol was saving. Not Boniface, when at a mug Of ale he gave a hearty tug, Was fuller of his subject-matter; And Dobson had a better plea For boasting of its pedigree; For his was brewed at home, and he Was infinitely fatter. One cask he had better and stronger Than all the rest brewed at a christening; To pass it set his eyes a glistening; In short he couldn't tarry longer, But seizing spiggot and a faucet, He tapp'd it -- quaffed a luscious posset -- Then, like a hospitable fellow, Sent for his friends to make them mellow. -- Among them he invited one Called Tibbs, a simple-minded wight, Whom waggish Dobson took delight To make the subject of his fun: For Nature such few brains had put In neighbour Tibbs's @3occiput,@1 That all the rustic wags and wits Found him a most convenient butt For their good hits; Though sometimes, as both great and small aver, He gave them Roland for their Oliver. The guests all met, and dinner spread, Dobson first tipped the wink, then said, "Well, now, my lads, we'll all draw lots, To settle which of us shall go Into the cellerage below, To fill the pots." So saying, he adroitly wriggled The shortest into Tibbs's paw, Whereat the others hugely giggled, And Tibbs, obedient to the law, Went down, the beverage to draw. Now, Farmer Dobson, wicked wag! Over the cellar door had slung A water-bowl, so slily hung, That whoso gave the door a drag, Was sure to shower down at once A quart of liquid on his sconce. Our host and all his brother wits, Soon as they heard their victim's tramp, Who looked half-drowned, burst into fits, Which in fresh peals of laughter flamed, When Tibbs in drawling tone, exclaimed: "Isn't your cellar rather damp?" Grace being said, quick havoc followed; Many good things were said and swallowed; -- Joking, laughing, stuffing, and quaffing, For a full hour they pushed about The cans, and when there came a pause, From mere exhaustion of their jaws, Tibbs with his nasal twang drawled out -- "Suppose we now draw lots again, Which of us shall go down to put The spiggot back into the butt." "Why, zounds!" the farmer roared amain -- "The spiggot back! come, come, you're funning, You haven't left the liquor running?" "I did as I was ordered, Jack," Quoth Tibbs; -- "and if it was intentioned That I should put the spiggot back, 'Tis a great pity 'twasn't mentioned: -- You've lost a cask of precious stuff, But I, for one, have drunk enough." "Ass! numskull! fool!" the farmer cried -- "What can one get, confound your souls! By asking such half-witted lubbers?" -- "This lesson, neighbour," Tibbs replied -- "That those who choose to play at bowls Must expect rubbers!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO GOD THE FATHER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CITY VIGNETTE: RAIN AT NIGHT by SARA TEASDALE IN THE CARPENTER'S SHOP by SARA TEASDALE THRENODY by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE BROOKSIDE by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES SONNET: 129 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT by HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN |