So runs the telegram. Prepare
The fatted calf—the firstling slay!
Wife of my Soul! Our meagre fare
Shall be a Persian feast today.
The Widow 's vintage must be poured
This night above our humble board.
Bring forth the Bank-book—let us con
The total of our savings small.
Draw draughts the London branch upon;
Tomorrow we remit it all.
There is a tide—but no one knows
How soon it ebbs—how far it flows.
Methinks there is a suaver touch,
A blander influence o'er the Earth;
The pauper East from Prome to Cutch
Is radiant with returning mirth.
The very sky that hems us in,
Beams with a fine financial grin.
The fervid Sun seems almost kind,
My evening mutton almost tender;
Yea, at this moment, I could find
Heart to believe my spouse is—slender.
Long vistas of enormous wealth
Confront me as I drink her health.
Now Thomas Timpkins—he my son,
A lad of rare and curious parts—
Shall blossom as the seasons run
Into a Bachelor of Arts.
Oxford in after years shall claim
A share of his illustrious name.
Amelia—Yes—a ladies' school
At Brighton. Then, a year or twain
At Paris under Convent rule—
Then to her parents' arms again.
And last—Oh joy for us and her!—
Wife of a full Commissioner.
And—let me see—my leave next year
Is due. I really think we might—
Eh, Mrs Timpkins ?—save a clear
Three thou . . .
The Cliquot's finished quite.
Alas! To think so poor am I—
A penny sets me leaping high!