"While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pass his mornings "Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; "You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, And portion both their fortunes "Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said; "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, Sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate." The will as Brentford spoke it He bade the lawyer leave him, And turn'd him round and dozed; And next week in the churchyard The good old King reposed. Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, Poor Edward showed his grief: Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He falter'd in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onwards he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn, And when the bones of BrentfordThat gentle king and justWith bell and book and candle Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed. "When late our sire beloved The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about : Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt. "My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from. "Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas, "What he thought about us twain.") "Though small was your allowance, Shall get a plenty more." "The tortoise and the hare, Tom, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning "Ned's genius, blithe and singing, Steps gaily o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it He clears it with a bound; But dulness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound. "O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other But onwards go your beat, While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet; "And ever as he wanders, "Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those Are excellently suited. To look before your nose. "Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes; The stupidest are weakest, The witty are not wise; "And though my lands are wide, "Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cold to yield to passion Or silly tenderness. March on your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success. "Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy lust." ("I' faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I cannot trust. "Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock, "I leave to you, my Thomas ("What, all?" poor Edward said. "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head")— "I leave to you, my Thomas,— To you IN TRUST for Ned.” The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal passage Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company, And honest Ned's amaze ! |