A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.)/The Retired Tradesman
The Retired Tradesman.
"An owre true tale."—Burns.
Mr Mortimer Maxwell had given up trade,
For this excellent reason: his fortune was made;
He hath freehold and leasehold, and copyhold too,
So Maxwell bethinks him of what he shall do;
He no longer will stay,
But at once cut away
From the vile smoky town,
To a "Cottage Orneé."
Now Mortimer Maxwell hath found a retreat,
A not over large one, but monstrous neat;
It hath little green shutters, a little green door;
But I'm telling too much, I shall mention no more.
A paper was stuck up,
On which it was told
The Cottage would either
"Be Let," or "Be Sold."
He has taken and furnished the "Crib" very nice;
He went for the nobby, he heeded not price;
His chairs, and his tables, and carpets, were new,
His "plate" second hand, but that's nothing to you;
While the doings o'er head,
From the best damask bed
To the meanest utensil,
Were good, people said.
There's one thing it grieves me uncommon to say—
To the gloom of his path he'd provided no ray;
As a palpable "Hedge" to a dull country life
He should (so the ladies said) take him a wife;
And the truth shall be known,
For the fault was his own,
That he'd no "flesh of his flesh,"
Or "bone of his bone."
For mothers were constantly bringing their daughters,
Who "painted on velvet," and "played," from all quarters;
But, with grief be it said, that to happiness dead,
He hinted "at present" he shouldn't get wed:
He don't know what to do,
And the devils so blue
Come to visit him oft,
And torment him a few.
At last a near neighbour, a fox hunting squire,
Who Maxwell's "pale brandy" and weed did admire,
Said he'd send him a horse to Spottleback Gorse,
And Maxwell accepted his offer, of course;
He look'd quite the "cheese,"
From his "heel" to his "nob,"
As he rode to the "meet"
On his bonesetting cob.
But it's one thing to meet them, another to go,
As poor Maxwell's exploits in the sequel will show;
They are thrown into "covert," they have found, and are gone;
"Hark! forward! they're running, and Maxwell makes one;
Instead of the rein
He lays hold of the mane,
And he holdeth his breath,
For he*s frightened to death.
Oh! why did he mount him, alas! for the day;
See, the horse lays his ears down, he*s running away;
On! on! 'mong the "ruck," over hedge, ditch, and stile,
By dint of the pummel he holds on a mile;
Till they came to a bullfinch,
When, sad thing to say,
A "purler" went Maxwell,
And there Maxwell lay.
Much bruised was his body, all torn were his clothes,
He has knocked his front teeth out, and flattened his nose,
So that not his best friends would be able to know, sir,
That they saw Mr. Mortimer Maxwell the grocer.
A man named George Smart
Took him home in his cart,
Thus playing a country
Samaritan's part.
Of "hunting" our grocer has had quite enough;
By the squire he's been christen'd a "Jolly Old Muff;"
Retirement to him has brought nothing but pain,
So he says he shall go into business again.