  A Story Told by Jones—The Spook of Rotten Row O NE evening, as in troubled mood,I sampled Rotten Row, Across my scapula, I got A sharp conclusive blow! Was quick, and deftly laid, With rude familiar frowardness, Against my shoulder blade! The impact curled up my blood; And almost in a thrice, My heart refrigerated, to An imprompt lump of ice! I feared it was a bailiff, and I sprang from off the sod! "I'm but a ghost!" said he, "you need Not start" said I "thank God! "I must confess, that I eschew A bailiff's companie, "A ghost, is much more welcome, to A person fixed like me." Thus into swift acquaintanship, Familiarly did glide, The spook of Rotten Row, and I, And walking side by side, We chatted in a varied way, And slowly sauntered round, Until we came upon a lone, And sparsy plot of ground, Then halting there, the spectre cried, In accents like a knell, "T'was here I fought a duel once, And there it was I fell! Behold a thistle growing there, And yon a shamrock too, And there in every season past, A little wild rose grew, A nursery in miniature, Of sign of Kingdoms three, That sprang spontaneous thro' the sod, From blood, that flowed from me, For lo! my sire was Rupert Smith, My mater was a Lynch; My grandmother per pater, was A Flora Jane Mac Tinch, An uncle, on the mother's side, A Belfast Macinfee, This made the union perfect, And embodied thus in me, Was typed the British Empire, Per my consanguinitee. And it's an interesting fact, That Wales can share the fame, And pride, of my nativity, For, Jones, it was the name, My mother first accepted, as A matrimonial claim; But Jones was testily inclined, And all about a myth, In jealous hate, he fell before The blade, of Rupert Smith! Then Rupert Smith, he minded of The widow's wail, and tear, And in remorse, he married her, As consequence, I'm here! The record of my gallant sire, To hot complexion grew, In me, till I was minded of A cause, for fighting too. I knew a maid, and for her sake, My daily life was fuss, It is not always for a maid, A man's affected thus; But when she wasn't by my side, I felt how lonely, space Would be, if man could not behold, A single woman's face. And so I fondled, petted her, And worried, wrote some rhymes, And even got them published, in A small, suburban times, I took some pestilential pains, To learn the minuet, And trained my voice, to harmonise, With her's, in the duet. illustration We married were, I faith! it was A festal day, for hope, To care we gave the congÈ, and To pleasure, extra scope, Until one day, my joy was washed Away, like scented soap! 'Twas on this wise,— In Rotten Row, Midst fashionable life, I found a promenader there, In converse, with my wife! I parleyed not a moment, but Asserting manhood's law, illustration I tweaked him by the nose, and cried, "Defend thyself and draw!" Resenting my impetuous way, The old command, to teach, He roused him to impromptu fire, Of indignation speech, And with a sneer, that galled my quick, He swore me, I must die! But with a rough right royal oath, I sneered him back the lie! "Thy name?" quoth I, "I am," said he, "A man of Deeds, and Loans, And auction sales, I come from Wales, My name is Mervyn Jones!" "What? Mervyn Jones of Pontypridd?" "Exactly so, the same," Said he,—I heard of him before, And quivered at his name! For 'twas the name, thro' which the world Had come to hear of me, By pruning blade of Smith, on Jones; His genealogic tree, "Yes I am Jones!" Quoth he, "By loans, And mortgaged, for her life, Thro' debts to me, attorney's power, I hold upon thy wife, So skin thy blade, I'll give thee cause, To tweak my nose!" he saith, "I'll auction thee, unto the bid, Of good old broker death!"— Hereditary fate it seemed, That I must fight with Jones, I would have shirked it, but for those, His irritating tones, I feared a compensating fate, Might strike an even deal, Betwixt the house of Smith, and Jones, But skinning forth my steel, I smote at him, by hip, and thigh, By carte, and aye by tierce, I held him to his guard, with quick, Aggressive strokes, and fierce, But lo! the cunning of my wrist, A moment lapsed! with art Of subtle fencer, past my guard, He pinked me, in the heart! It skivered me, just like the fork, That spoils a grilling steak, I shivered, with a yell, and then, A woman's cry,—and crake Of joy from him, with mighty pang, I leaped in air, and fell! A muffled music thrilled my brain; For me, the passing knell, From numbing toe, and finger tip, The graduating thrill Of life's collapse, crept over me, I wriggled, and lay still! Then, from the chrysolid of flesh, Light spirited I rose, And gazed upon my corse, as on A suit of cast off clothes, My widow shrieked, and fainted, but A golden vinagarette, My slayer lifted from his fob, And to her nose, he set The bauble, while he pinched her, slapped Her hands, and brought her to, Then speaking to my mortal wreck, Said he, "Now as for you, I have avenged the slur upon My nose, thy tweak hath wrought, Thou art the loser, in the game Of combat, that thou sought, But lo! thy widow, will not weep It long, for I may say, She'll shed her weeds, and she will wed With me, the first of May! Then, with my spouse upon his arm, He turned, and sneaked away, And left me here, a widowed ghost, Aye, even to this day!" My indignation at his wrongs, I told the grateful spook: "Gramercy!" cried he, as with misty Fist, my hand he shook, And charged me thus, with eager verve, Of deep revengeful tones, "If ever thou dost meet a man, Who deals in deeds, and loans, Who bears the patronymic, and The shield, of Mervyn Jones, I care not how, by forgery! By fist, or aye by knife! By sneaking of his fiancÉe, Or mayhap of his wife! By burgling of his premises, Or pelting him with stones! Avenge me, on the offspring, of The man, called Mervyn Jones!" I sware him, if such christened man, Did ever dare my sight, In widest open day, or from The nooks, of darkest night! It mattered not, if extra tall, Or what his weight, or width, I'd borrow from him, to avenge The wrongs, of Rupert Smith! "I thank thee well!" the spectre cried, With chuckle, sad, and grim, "Adieu!" And lo! he vanished thro' The hazy gloaming dim: He vanished, and I thanked my luck, He left no aching bones! For I'm a male descendant, of The man, called Mervyn Jones! And Mervyn, haps my christian name, A broker, I am he, A windfall fructifaction, of That genealogic tree. Next evening, when I told this tale, To Doctor Bolus Chuff, Incredulous, and unimpressed, With mien, erect, and tough, Presenting a prescription, for Some tonic tempered pills, Said he "Thro' too much spirits, you Have got D.T.'s and chills!" |
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