And he cries, “What on earth has become of them all?—­
               What can delay
               De Vaux and De Saye? 
       What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay? 
       What’s gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye? 
       Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away? 
     And De Nokes and De Styles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey? 
                And De Roe? 
                And De Doe? 
       Poynings and Vavasour—­where be they? 
       Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
       And the Mandevilles, pere et filz (father and son);
       Their cards said ‘Dinner precisely at One!’
               There’s nothing I hate, in
               The world, like waiting! 
       It’s a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
       A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!”

       It’s in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two! 
       And the scullions and cooks are themselves “in a stew,”
       And the kitchen-maids stand, and don’t know what to do,
       For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,
       And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,
               And the fish is all spoiled,
               And the butter’s all oiled,
       And the soup’s got cold in the silver tureen,
       And there’s nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen! 
       While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume,
       And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,
               And still fidgets and looks
               More cross than the cooks,
     And repeats that bad word, which we’ve softened to “Zooks!”

       Two o’clock’s come, and Two o’clock’s gone,
       And the large and the small hands move steadily on,
               Still nobody’s there,
               No De Roos, or De Clare,
       To taste of the Scroope’s most delicate fare,

       Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton’s Heir,
       That nice little boy who sits in his chair,
       Some four years old, and a few months to spare,
       With his laughing blue eyes and his long curly hair,
       Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.

Again Sir Guy the silence broke,
“It’s hard upon Three!—­it’s just on the stroke! 
Come, serve up the dinner!—­A joke is a joke”—­
Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,
Who “his fun,” as the Yankees say, everywhere “pokes,”
And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes,
Has written a circular note to De Nokes,
And De Styles and De Roe, and the rest of the folks,
One and all,
Great and small,
Who were asked to the Hall
To dine there and sup, and wind up with a ball,
And had told all the party a great bouncing lie, he
Cooked up, that the “fete was postponed sine die,
The dear little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croop!”