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 "_fête_ was postponed _sine die_,
The dear little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croop!"

When the clock struck Three,
And the Page on his knee
Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, _On a servi_!"
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near
To partake of his cheer,
He stamped, and he stormed--then his language!--Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear!
And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi,"_
"Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
--The Devil take _them_! and the Devil take _thee!_
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!"

In a terrible fume
He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house--and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,