The Abode of Genius

Sir John Rupee from India sails. 
Richer than any King of Wales. 
Enormous diamonds, pearls untold,
 With many a pound of powder'd gold. 
Enrich his store; here, painted glass. 
There, muslins lay; a weighty mass! 
Besides of many curious things,
 Fit only for the use of Kings. 
With heavy ballots, great and small,
 But he, the heaviest of them all,
 Look'd up, and smil'd, with self-applause,
 "'Tis well the Nabobs have no laws;
 Soon shall these shining trifles bear
 A whisper to my sov'reign's ear,
 That John Rupee would be a peer. 
These too shall bring me cooks from France,
 These too shall teach me how to dance,
 These too" – must yield in this same hour,
 Cries Death, to my superior power. 
For while the Knight laid out his wealth
 In projects to destroy his health,
 Death soon, in habit apoplectic,
 Took care the Knight should not be left sick,
 And thus his grand designs were soil'd –
 By death were spoilers ever spoil'd. 
An heir, the only one he had,
 In circumstances rather bad,
 Was selling, at a country fair,
 Tape, candles, snuff, and such-like ware;
 When the glad tidings reach'd his ears,
 Turns colour, hems, and 'round him stares,
 Cries, "Bet – our Bet, what must we do
 With all those things, for I don't know?" 
 "Why, law," she answered, "there's the vicar,
" Wull tell us for a drap of lequor. " 
" No, no, "says Tim," I understand
 "That had I genius at command – – –
" Why, fetch him then, you sorry elf; "
" That's right, "says Tim," I'll go myself. " 
The story runs, that France and Spain
 Sent Tim, sans genius, home again. 
And there a friend, one lucky day,
 Advis'd him quite another way:
" Go north, "he cried," the air is keen
 "And clear, where Genius may be seen." 
Now Tim and Bet, in hack post chaise,
 Set out for Scotland in two days;
 Resolv'd to travel day and night,
 To find this Genius, clever spright! 
Who was to set all matters right. 
Without one broken wheel or bone,
 From Kent to Coventry, jog on
 The clumsy pair; but Fortune's smile
 Which can far wiser heads beguile,
 There quickly chang'd it to a frown,
 As they, their horses at the Crown. 
'Twas Sunday; and the boys never fail,
 To keep the Sabbath strict – with ale. 
Ah luckless man, in Warwickshire,
 Whose lot is to be driven in by Beer. 
(Says Prudence, whisp'ring in my ear,
 And dost not thou, gay trifler, fear
 Thy muse so weak, so young, should now
 Be stuck, or smother'd in a slough? 
Pshaw; prithee friend, I cry, begone,
 And let me with my tale have done.) 
The roads were bad, the ways were deep,
 Both Bet and Tim were fast asleep,
 Night long had taken place of day,
 The driver long had lost his way,
 When some most awkward bank or ditch,
 'Twas dark, and so they knew not which,
 O'erturned the sleepers in the dirt,
 The chaise was broke, but they not hurt,
 Soon scrambled out, but where to go
 They could not think, they did not know
 Bet cried, because she could not see;
 Tim soon crept half way up a tree,
 From whence a glimm'ring light he spied
 Sure, that's a house, our Bet, he cried;
 Then, arm in arm, they walk together,
 To seek a shelter from the weather
 Some fifty yards they go and find
 A small brick house, a wood behind,
 A field before, a garden gate,
 Secur'd with care, a garden gate,
 Secur'd with care, for now 'twas late:
 They call — a female voice replies — who's there? 
With stick and lantern then draws near. 
And lets the trembling travellers in:
 My master, Sir, is not within. 
Says Mrs. Mary, for 'twas she,
 A house-keeper of fifty-three. 
Quickly their downfall they recite. 
 "Oh dear! you must sleep here to-night,"
 Adds Mrs. Mary; "walk in here;"
 Then leaves them, and with friendly care
 Returns with ham, cold chicken, cheese,
 And any wine that you shall please. 
Now round the room with scorn Tim gaz'd,
 High on a desk was music rais'd,
 Here books in burly chaos laid,
 And there some poems lately made;
 With these, an inkhorn and a fiddle,
 An half writ eclogue, and a riddle. 
No stucco, glass, nor gilding seen,
 But all was plain, and neat, and clean. 
Tim swore at all delays, but eat,
 While Bet sat grumbling o'er her meat:
 "'Twas hard they were no farther got;
 To be detain'd too in a cot,
 Where Genius never shew'd his face,
 'Twas sure a mortal cruel case! 
Why maybe, Tim, we may not get
 To Mr. Genius three days yet;
 I wonder where this Genius is,
 Will he be yours, and you be his?" 
When lo! a voice, sweet, shrill, and clear,
 Cries — "Who wants Genius? I am here." 
They stare, amaz'd — where — where — why here,
 Laid snug in Jenner's elbow chair.