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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498840" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Look at The Clock!' : Patty Morgan The Milkmaid's Story</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">FYTTE I. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Look at the Clock!' quoth Winifred Pryce, <br>As she open'd the door to her husband's knock, <br>Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice, <br>'You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock! <br>Is this the way, you <br>Wretch, every day you <br>Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you? <br>Out all night! <br>Me in a fright; <br>Staggering home as it's just getting light! <br>You intoxified brute! you insensible block! <br>Look at the Clock!-- Do!-- Look at the Clock!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean, <br>Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green, <br>Her buckles were bright as her milking cans, <br>And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; <br>Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, <br>Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes: <br>A face like a ferret <br>Betoken'd her spirit: <br>To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young, <br>Had very short legs, and a very long tongue. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now David Pryce <br>Had one darling vice; <br>Remarkably partial to anything nice, <br>Nought that was good to him came amiss, <br>Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss! <br>Especially ale -- <br>If it was not too stale <br>I really believe he'd have emptied a pail; <br>Not that in Wales <br>They talk of their Ales; <br>To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, <br>Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">That particular day, <br>As I've heard people say, <br>Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, <br>And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, <br>The whole afternoon at the Goat in Boots, <br>With a couple more soakers, <br>Thoroughbred smokers, <br>Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; <br>And, long after day had drawn to a close, <br>And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, <br>They were roaring out 'Shenkin!' and 'Ar hydd y nos;' <br>While David himself, to a Sassenach tune, <br>Sang, 'We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!' <br>What have we with day to do? <br>Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!'-- <br>At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, <br>Old 'Goat-in-Boots' show'd them the door; <br>And then came that knock, <br>And the sensible shock <br>David felt when his wife cried, 'Look at the Clock!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, <br>The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three! <br>This self-same Clock had long been a bone <br>Of contention between this Darby and Joan; <br>And often among their pother and rout, <br>When this otherwise amiable couple fell out, <br>Pryce would drop a cool hint, <br>With an ominous squint <br>At its case, of an 'Uncle' of his, who'd a 'Spout.' <br>That horrid word 'Spout' <br>No sooner came out, <br>Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, <br>And with scorn on her lip, <br>And a hand on each hip, <br>'Spout' herself till her nose grew red at the tip. <br>'You thundering willain, <br>I know you'd be killing <br>Your wife,-- ay, a dozen of wives,-- for a shilling! <br>You may do what you please, <br>You may sell my chemise, <br>(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,) <br>But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast; <br>But patience is apt to wear out at last, <br>And David Pryce in temper was quick, <br>So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; <br>Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, <br>But walking just then wasn't very convenient, <br>So he threw it, instead, <br>Direct at her head. <br>It knock'd off her hat; <br>Down she fell flat; <br>Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: <br>But, whatever it was,-- whether rage and pain <br>Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, <br>Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, <br>I can't say for certain,-- but this I can, <br>When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, <br>Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fearful catastrophe <br>Named in my last strophe <br>As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, <br>Soon made a great noise; and the shocking fatality <br>Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality. <br>And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, <br>With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. <br>Mr. Pryce to commence <br>His 'ingenious defence,' <br>Made a 'powerful appeal' to the jury's 'good sense,' <br>'The world he must defy <br>Ever to justify <br>Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;' <br>The unlucky lick <br>From the end of his stick <br>He 'deplored,' he was 'apt to be rather too quick;' <br>But, really, her prating <br>Was so aggravating: <br>Some trifling correction was just what he meant; all <br>The rest, he assured them, was 'quite accidental!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then he called Mr. Jones, <br>Who deposed to her tones, <br>And her gestures, and hints about 'breaking his bones.' <br>While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys <br>Declared the Deceased <br>Had styled him 'a Beast,' <br>And swore they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, <br>The allusions she made to his limbs and his eyes. <br>The jury, in fine, having sat on the body <br>The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy, <br>Return'd about half-past eleven at night <br>The following verdict, 'We find, Sarve her right!' <br>Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead, <br>Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said <br>He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not far from his dwelling, <br>From the vale proudly swelling, <br>Rose a mountain; it's name you'll excuse me from telling, <br>For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few <br>That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, <br>Have really but little or nothing to do; <br>And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far <br>On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R. <br>Its first syllable, 'Pen,' <br>Is pronounceable;-- then <br>Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N; <br>About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow, <br>Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow: <br>But we shan't have to mention it often, so when <br>We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to 'Pen.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well,-- the moon shone bright <br>Upon 'Pen' that night, <br>When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, <br>Was scaling its side <br>With that sort of stride <br>A man puts out when walking in search of a bride, <br>Mounting higher and higher, <br>He began to perspire, <br>Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, <br>And feeling opprest <br>By a pain in his chest, <br>He paused, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; <br>A walk all up hill is apt, we know, <br>To make one, however robust, puff and blow, <br>So he stopp'd, and look'd down on the valley below. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O'er fell, and o'er fen, <br>Over mountain and glen, <br>All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then <br>All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought <br>Of Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught <br>Of her Heroes of old, <br>So brave and so bold,-- <br>Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold; <br>Of King Edward the First, <br>Of memory accurst; <br>And the scandalous manner in which he behaved, <br>Killing Poets by dozens, <br>With their uncles and cousins, <br>Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved. <br>Of the Court Ball, at which by a lucky mishap, <br>Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap; <br>And how Mr. Tudor <br>Successfully woo'd her <br>Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring, <br>And so made him Father-in-law to the King. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore, <br>On Gryffth ap Conan, and Owen Glendour; <br>On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more. <br>He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, <br>And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce; <br>When a lumbering noise from behind made him start, <br>And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, <br>Which went pit-a-pat <br>As he cried out, 'What's that?'-- <br>That very queer sound? <br>Does it come from the ground? <br>Or the air,-- from above or below, or around? <br>It is not like Talking, <br>It is not like Walking, <br>It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, <br>Or the tramp of a horse,-- or the tread of a man,-- <br>Or the hum of a crowd,-- or the shouting of boys,-- <br>It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise! <br>Not unlike a Cart's,-- but that can't be; for when <br>Could 'all the King's horses and all the King's men,' <br>With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up 'Pen?' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk, <br>Now experienced what schoolboys denominate 'funk.' <br>In vain he look'd back <br>On the whole of the track <br>He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, <br>At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, <br>And did not seem likely to pass away soon; <br>While clearer and clearer, <br>'Twas plain to the hearer, <br>Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer, <br>And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares, <br>Very much 'like a Coffin a-walking up stairs.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mr. Pryce had begun <br>To 'make up' for a run, <br>As in such a companion he saw no great fun, <br>When a single bright ray <br>Shone out on the way <br>He had pass'd, and he saw, with no little dismay, <br>Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, <br>The deceased Mrs. Winifred's 'Grandmother's Clock!!' <br>'Twas so!-- it had certainly moved from its place, <br>And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase; <br>'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case, <br>And nothing was alter'd at all -- but the Face! <br>In that he perceived, with no little surprise, <br>The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes <br>Blazing with ire, <br>Like two coals of fire; <br>And the 'Name of the Maker' was changed to a Lip, <br>And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip. <br>No!-- he could not mistake it,--' twas She to the life! <br>The identical Face of his poor defunct Wife! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">One glance was enough, <br>Completely 'Quant. suff.' <br>As the doctors write down when they send you their 'stuff,'-- <br>Like a Weather-cock whirl'd by a vehement puff, <br>David turn'd himself round; <br>Ten feet of ground <br>He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses, <br>I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises, <br>At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat, <br>And one from a Bailiff much faster than that; <br>At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder, <br>I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder, <br>I've seen little boys run away from a cane, <br>And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain; <br>But I never did read <br>Of, or witness, such speed <br>As David exerted that evening.-- Indeed <br>All I ever have heard of boys, women, or men, <br>Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over 'Pen!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He reaches its brow,-- <br>He has past it, and now <br>Having once gain'd the summit, and managed to cross it, he <br>Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity; <br>But, run as he will, <br>Or roll down the hill, <br>That bugbear behind him is after him still! <br>And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, <br>The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking, <br>Till, exhausted and sore, <br>He can't run any more, <br>But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door, <br>And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, <br>'Oh! Look at the Clock!-- Do!-- Look at the Clock!!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down, <br>She saw nothing there to alarm her;-- a frown <br>Came o'er her white forehead, <br>She said, 'It was horrid <br>A man should come knocking at that time of night, <br>And give her Mamma and herself such a fright; <br>To squall and to bawl <br>About nothing at all, <br>She begg'd 'he'd not think of repeating his call, <br>His late wife's disaster <br>By no means had past her,' <br>She'd 'have him to know she was meat for his Master!' <br>Then, regardless alike of his love and his woes, <br>She turn'd on her heel and she turned up her nose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poor David in vain <br>Implored to remain, <br>He 'dared not,' he said, 'cross the mountain again.' <br>Why the fair was obdurate <br>None knows,-- to be sure, it <br>Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;-- <br>Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole <br>Pryce could find to creep into that night was the Coal-hole! <br>In that shady retreat, <br>With nothing to eat, <br>And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, <br>All night close he kept; <br>I can't say he slept; <br>But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept, <br>Lamenting his sins <br>And his two broken shins, <br>Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, <br>And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis, <br>Consigning to Satan,-- viz. cruel Miss Davis! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mr. David has since had a 'serious call,' <br>He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, <br>And they say he is going to Exeter Hall <br>To make a grand speech, <br>And to preach, and to teach <br>People that 'they can't brew their malt-liquor too small!' <br>That an ancient Welsh Poet, one Pyndar ap Tudor, <br>Was right in proclaiming 'Ariston men Udor!' <br>Which means 'The pure Element <br>Is for the belly meant!' <br>And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And 'still on each evening when pleasure fills up,' <br>At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup, <br>Mr Pryce, if he's there, <br>Will get into 'the Chair,' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And make all his quondam associates stare <br>By calling aloud to the landlady's daughter, <br>'Patty! bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!' <br>The dial he constantly watches; and when <br>The long hand's at the 'XII,' and the short at the 'X,' <br>He gets on his legs, <br>Drains his glass to the dregs, <br>Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, <br>With his President's hammer bestows his last knock, <br>And says solemnly,--'Gentlemen! <br>'Look at the Clock!!!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Harris+Barham">Richard Harris Barham</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498840" data-title="Look at The Clock!' : Patty Morgan The Milkmaid's Story de Richard Harris Barham" data-description="FYTTE I. 

'Look at the Clock!' quoth Winifred Pryce, 
As she open'd the door to her husband's knock, 
Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice, 
'You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock! 
Is this the way, you 
Wretch, every day you 
Treat her who v..."></div>
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