The noble King of Brentford

Was old and very sick;

He summoned his physicians

To wait upon him quick;

They stepped into their coaches,

And brought their best physick.

They crammed their gracious master

With potion and with pill;

They drenched him and they bled him:

They could not cure his ill.

"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,

I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate

The lawyer did obey;

The thought of six-and-eightpence

Did make his heart full gay.

"What is't," says he, "your majesty

Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belaboured me

With potion and with pill;

My hours of life are counted,

O man of tape and quill!

Sit down and mend a pen or two,

I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford

I'm lord, and eke of Kew;

I've three per cents., and five per cents.;

My debts are but a few;

And to inherit after me

I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son,

A sober prince is he,

And from the day we breeched him

Till now he's twenty-three,

He never caused disquiet

To his poor mama or me.

"At school they never flogged him,

At college, though not fast,

Yet his little go and great go

He creditably passed,

And made his year's allowance

For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling,

Went never drunk to bed;

He has not two ideas

Within his honest head;—

In all respects he differs

From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income

Laid by at the year's end,

Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver

That rightly he may spend;

But spunges on a tradesman,

Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies

Most soberly pursues,

Poor Ned must pass his mornings

A-dawdling with the muse;

While Tom frequents his banker,

Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies,

Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;

Ah! cruel Fate, why made you

My children differ thus?

Why make of Tom a dullard,

And Ned a genius?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling,"

Exclaimed the man of writs;—

"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,

"Sir Lawyer, as befits;

And portion both their fortunes

Unto their several wits."

The will as Brentford spoke it

Was writ, and signed, and closed;

He bade the lawyer leave him,

And turned him round and dozed;

And next week in the churchyard

The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hat-band,

Of mourners was the chief;

In bitter self-upbraidings

Poor Edward showed his grief;

Tom hid his fat white countenance

In his pocket-handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping,

He faltered in his walk;

Tom never shed a tear,

But onwards he did stalk,

As pompous, black, and solemn,

As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford,

That gentle king and just,

With bell, and book, and candle,

Were duly laid in dust,

"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,

"Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved

Was taken deadly ill,

Sir Lawyer, you attended him

(I mean to tax your bill);

And as you signed and wrote it,

I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,

And drew the parchment out;

And all the Brentford family

Sate eager round about.

Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,

But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready

To seek my last long home,

Some cares I feel for Neddy,

But none for thee, my Tom;

Sobriety and order

You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius,

And thou a plodding brain;

On thee I think with pleasure,

On him with doubt and pain."

"You see, good Ned," says Thomas,

"What he thought about us twain."

"Tho' small was your allowance,

You saved a little store,

And those who save a little

Shall get a plenty more;"

As the lawyer read this compliment,

Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,

Set out at each his pace;

The hare it was the fleeter,

The tortoise won the race;

And since the world's beginning

This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,

Steps gaily o'er the ground;

As steadily you trudge it,

He clears it with a bound;

But dulness has stout legs, Tom,

And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,

You pass with plodding feet;

You heed not one nor t'other,

But onwards go your beat:

While Genius stops to loiter

With all that he may meet;

"And ever as he wanders

Will have a pretext fine

For sleeping in the morning,

Or loitering to dine,

Or dozing in the shade,

Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom,

Though not so bright as those

That restless round about him

Your flashing genius throws,

Are excellently suited

To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven then for the blinkers

It placed before your eyes;

The stupidest are steadiest,

The witty are not wise;

O bless your good stupidity,

It is your dearest prize!

"And though my lands are wide,

And plenty is my gold,

Still better gifts from nature,

My Thomas, do you hold—

A brain that's thick and heavy,

A heart that's dull and cold—

"Too dull to feel depression,

Too hard to heed distress,

Too cold to yield to passion,

Or silly tenderness.

March on; your road is open

To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance,

And you in greedy lust."

("I'faith," says Ned, "our father

Is less polite than just.")

"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,

But Ned I cannot trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,

My lands and tenements,

My parks, my farms, and orchards,

My houses and my rents;

My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,

My five and three per cents.;

The wrath and consternation

What poet e'er could trace,

That at this fatal passage

Came o'er Prince Tom his face;

The wonder of the company,

And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake,"

Good-naturedly cries Ned;

The lawyer answered gravely,

"'Tis even as I said;

'Twas thus his gracious majesty

Ordained on his death-bed.

"See here, the will is witnessed,

here's his autograph."

"In truth our father's writing,"

Says Edward with a laugh;

"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,

We'll share it half-and-half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman,

This sharing may not be;

'Tis written in the testament

That Brentford spoke to me:

'I do forbid Prince Ned to give

Prince Tom a halfpenny.

"'He hath a store of money,

But ne'er was known to lend it;

He never helped his brother,

The poor he ne'er befriended;

He hath no need of property

Who knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,

And thrifty Tom to hoard;

Let Thomas be the steward then,

And Edward be the lord;

And as the honest labourer

Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,

And my successor dear,

To pay to his intendant

Five hundred pounds a-year;

And to think of his old father,

And live and make good cheer."

Such was old Brentford's honest testament.

He did devise his moneys for the best,

And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.

Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;

But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,

To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.

He did; young Thomas lent at interest,

And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured

O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;

But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.

And when both died, as mortal men will do,

'Twas commonly reported that the steward

Was a deuced deal the richer of the two.