Indeed it was a very novel case,
By way of penalty for being jolly,
To have that evergreen stuck in his face,
Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.

“All claret marks,”—­thought he—­Tom knew his forte—­
“Are red—­this color CANNOT come from Port!”

One thing was plain; with such a face as his,
’Twas quite impossible to ever greet
Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,
Altho’ ’twas such a parti-colored phiz! 
As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,
The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,
With “Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please—­
      Unless it comes too high—­
Vere ought a feller, now, to go to buy
The t’other half, Sir, of that ’ere green cheese?”
His mind recoil’d—­so he tied up his head,
As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;
Of course with feelings far from the serene,
For all his future prospects seemed to be,
      To match his customary tea,
      Black, mixt with green.

  Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown
Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down,
And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why;
To whom poor Simpson, half delirious,
  Returned an answer so mysterious
That curiosity began to fry;
The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch
By peeping in upon the patient’s bed,
Reported a most bloody, tied-up head,
Got over-night of course—­“Harm watch, harm catch,”
  From Watchmen in a boxing-match.

    So, liberty or not,—­
Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in
    A suicidal coffin—­
The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;
Appearance,—­“fiddle-sticks!” should not deter
      From going to the bed,
      And looking at the head: 
“La!  Mister S——­, he need not care for her! 
   A married woman that had had
Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad—­
Her own dear late would come home late at night,
   And liquor always got him in a fight. 
She’d been in hospitals—­she wouldn’t faint
At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep;
She knew what’s good for bruises and what ain’t—­
Turlington’s Drops she made a pint to keep. 
Cases she’d seen beneath the surgent’s hand—­
Such skulls japann’d—­she meant to say trepann’d! 
Poor wretches! you would think they’d been in battle,
      And hadn’t hours to live,
From tearing horses’ kicks or Smithfield cattle,
      Shamefully over-driv!—­
Heads forced to have a silver plate atop,
      To get the brains to stop. 
At imputations of the legs she’d been,
      And neither screech’d nor cried—­”
Hereat she pluck’d the white cravat aside,
And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen—­
“Preserve us all!  He’s going to gangrene!”

      Alas! through Simpson’s brain
Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain;
It tallied truly with his own misgiving,
      And brought a groan,
      To move a heart of stone—­
A sort of farewell to the land of living! 
And as the case was imminent and urgent,
He did not make a shadow of objection
To Mrs. B.’s proposal for a “surgent,”
But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection,
While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.