‘The rate of Exchange in Bombay on Saturday,
November 20th was 1s. 6d, and the market was firm.’
1 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. 2 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. 3 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. 4 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. 5 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. 6 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. 7 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!
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