The while the day the villagers improve

The while the day the villagers improve, Lord Arnold Mountjoy’s briskly on the move On the main road to Rollingate, and fain “Old John,” the coachman, renders up the rein. Now, as his wont, where’er the coach delays, At measured stages for the meet relays, Regales “old John;” (whose rough refulgent nose— The fruits, apparent, of an over-dose— Seems more protub’rant as he onward goes:) With studied complaisance and kindly word Drinks health and happiness to his fair lord; Indulges in an extra glass, or two, In honor of his lordship; whom he knew To be “a whip” most excellently true. About this period some folks talk’d of steam’s Surpassing everything in shape of teams: In northern counties railroads were being made, Which had a tendency to mar John’s trade,— And nothing more provoking could be said, Or cast more horror in the poor man’s head: “Give me,” said he, “my dear old four-in-hand, And twelve relays, I’ll drive throughout the land— From ‘John O’Groat’s’ down to the Cornish coast,—” (Now this, of course, was rather a bit of boast) “Tell me,” he said, “can steam come up to this?” To answer strongly would have been amiss; So those who knew the circle of his brain Permitted him his fancy to retain— Expounding his ideas with much force, Whilst Arnold whistled to the leading horse And in due time came up to his lodge-gate,— The gothic entrance into Rollingate; Resign’d the whip to John’s triumphant care, And gave a “blessing” o’er the usual fare: “Thank ye, my lord:” (repeated John, and loud)— And thus: “Good bye, yer honor,” then, more proud Than e’er, resumes his place, commands the steed; Th’ entangled whip dis’tangled and then freed Forth in the air assumes th’ impressive scream: “Now talk to me, if you like, about your steam!— It’s all a myth: God knows it’s all a dream.” Th’ obsequious horses, anxious for their part, Reply to John’s “kic-kic,” and off they start.