Before a desk he sat—bestrewed with papers,
Some English correspondence, and some Persian,
A chamber candlestick with waxen tapers,
Law documents and missals in reversion,
Sewals, jewaubs, et cetera—a version
Of Ayn Akbarry—Nasdan Kyabooka,
A brass pheckdan (our very great aversion)
The saliva receiver of a smoker
Who day and night puffs copiously—a gilded hookah.
Soon as he heard our hero's name, and saw
The youth approach, his glasses were displaced;
And there, indeed, stood honest Thomas Raw,
Just in the act to bow,—with look amazed;
Four strides he'd made, and, at the fifth, he raised
His right leg, which a curve soon brought to bear
Obliquely forward, till the toe just grazed
The matted floor—It made a circuit there
Smart to the right, and ended at length—"as you were."
One hand his dripping forehead wiped,—the other
Was fumbling in his pocket for the letter,
Which was produced in form, while many a brother
Fell to the ground, unbound by tape or fetter.
"What?—from my friend Will Raw—there never a better
"Old boy, existed," called out Mr. A.
"And you, sir, I presume's his son?—Well get a
"Chair, and sit down—Here, Chokey-low, I say
"I'm glad to see you—When sail'd you from England,—pray?'
"But tell me how you left the squire, Sir Harry?
"Many's the time I've joined him in the chase"—
"Why, first of all, he was induced to marry,
"And, never afterwards, held up his face;
"They said he broke his neck in Hymen's race.
"He died, however—jointuring well his widow,
"Who, passing to his heir, the fine old place,
"For one whole fortnight, scrupulously hid her
"Pretended grief, and, now's for sale to th' highest bidder!"
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SIR CHARLES D'OYLEY.