“Never durst the missis enter here until I've said‘ Come in'...

“Never durst the missis enter here until I’ve said ‘Come in’: If I saw the master peeping, I’d catch up the rolling-pin. Christmas-boxes, that’s a something; perkisites, that’s something too; And I think, take all together, John, I won’t be on with you.”

John the coachman took his hat up, for he thought he’d had enough; Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff; Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents mild, “She’s a fine young ’oman, cook is; but that’s where it is, she’s spiled.”

I have read in some not marvellous tale, (Or if I have not, I’ve dreamed) Of one who filled up the convivial cup Till the company round him seemed

To be vanished and gone, tho’ the lamps upon Their face as aforetime gleamed: And his head sunk down, and a Lethe crept O’er his powerful brain, and the young man slept.

Then they laid him with care in his moonlit bed: But first—having thoughtfully fetched some tar— Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather’s Uncertainty brings on at nights catarrh.

They staid in his room till the sun was high: But still did the feathered one give no sign Of opening a peeper—he might be a sleeper Such as rests on the Northern or Midland line.

At last he woke, and with profound Bewilderment he gazed around; Dropped one, then both feet to the ground, But never spake a word:

Then to my whole he made his way; Took one long lingering survey; And softly, as he stole away, Remarked, “By Jove, a bird!”