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A dull desire to have him go.

His clinging breeks, his tarry hat,
The way he swore, the way he spat,

A certain quality of manner,
Alarming like the pirate's banner -

Something that did not seem to suit all -
Something, O call it bluff, not brutal -

Something at least, howe'er it's called,
Made Robin generally black-balled.

His soul was wounded; proud and glum,
Alone he sat and swigged his rum,

And took a great distaste to men
Till he encountered Chemist Ben.

Bright was the hour and bright the day
That threw them in each other's way;

Glad were their mutual salutations,
Long their respective revelations.

Before the inn in sultry weather
They talked of this and that together;

Ben told the tale of his indentures,
And Rob narrated his adventures.

Last, as the point of greatest weight,
The pair contrasted their estate,

And Robin, like a boastful sailor,
Despised the other for a tailor.

'See,' he remarked, 'with envy, see
A man with such a fist as me!

Bearded and ringed, and big, and brown,
I sit and toss the stingo down.

Hear the gold jingle in my bag -
All won beneath the Jolly Flag!'

Ben moralised and shook his head:
'You wanderers earn and eat your bread.

The foe is found, beats or is beaten,
And, either how, the wage is eaten.

And after all your pully-hauly
Your proceeds look uncommon small-ly.

You had done better here to tarry
Apprentice to the Apothecary.

The silent pirates of the shore
Eat and sleep soft, and pocket more

Than any red, robustious ranger
Who picks his farthings hot from danger.

You clank your guineas on the board;
Mine are with several bankers stored.

You reckonriches on your digits,
You dash in chase of Sals and Bridgets,

You drink and risk delirium tremens,
Your whole estate a common seaman's!

Regard your friend and school companion,
Soon to be wed to Miss Trevanion

(Smooth, honourable, fat and flowery,
With Heaven knows how much land in dowry),

Look at me - Am I in good case?
Look at my hands, look at my face;

Look at the cloth of my apparel;
Try me and test me, lock and barrel;

And own, to give the devil his due,
I have made more of life than you.

Yet I nor sought nor risked a life;
I shudder at an open knife;

The perilous seas I still avoided
And stuck to land whate'er betided.

I had no gold, no marble quarry,
I was a poor apothecary,

Yet here I stand, at thirty-eight,
A man of an assuredestate.'

'Well,' answered Robin - 'well, and how?'
The smiling chemist tapped his brow.

'Rob,' he replied, 'this throbbing brain
Still worked and hankered after gain.

By day and night, to work my will,
It pounded like a powder mill;

And marking how the world went round
A theory of theft it found.

Here is the key to right and wrong:
STEAL LITTLE, BUT STEAL ALL DAY LONG;

And this invaluable plan
Marks what is called the Honest Man.

When first I served with Doctor Pill,
My hand was ever in the till.

Now that I am myself a master,
My gains come softer still and faster.

As thus: on Wednesday, a maid
Came to me in the way of trade.

Her mother, an old farmer's wife,
Required a drug to save her life.

'At once, my dear, at once,' I said,
Patted the child upon the head,

Bade her be still a loving daughter,
And filled the bottle up with water.'

'Well, and the mother?' Robin cried.
'O she!' said Ben - 'I think she died.'

'Battle and blood, death and disease,
Upon the tainted Tropic seas -

The attendant sharks that chew the cud -
The abhorred scuppers spouting blood -

The untended dead, the Tropic sun -
The thunder of the murderous gun -

The cut-throat crew - the Captain's curse -
The tempest blustering worse and worse -

These have I known and these can stand,
But you - I settle out of hand!'

Out flashed the cutlass, down went Ben
Dead and rotten, there and then.

Poem: II - THE BUILDER'S DOOM
In eighteen-twenty Deacon Thin

Feu'd the land and fenced it in,
And laid his broad foundations down

About a furlong out of town.
Early and late the work went on.

The carts were toiling ere the dawn;
The mason whistled, the hodman sang;

Early and late the trowels rang;
And Thin himself came day by day

To push the work in every way.
An artful builder, patent king

Of all the local building ring,
Who was there like him in the quarter

For mortifying brick and mortar,
Or pocketing the odd piastre

By substituting lath and plaster?
With plan and two-foot rule in hand,

He by the foreman took his stand,
With boisterous voice, with eagle glance

To stamp upon extravagance.
For thrift of bricks and greed of guilders,

He was the Buonaparte of Builders.
The foreman, a desponding creature,

Demurred to here and there a feature:
'For surely, sir - with your permeession -

Bricks here, sir, in the main parteetion. . . . '
The builder goggled, gulped, and stared,

The foreman's services were spared.
Thin would not count among his minions

A man of Wesleyan opinions.
'Money is money,' so he said.

'Crescents are crescents, trade is trade.
Pharaohs and emperors in their seasons

Built, I believe, for different reasons -
Charity, glory, piety, pride -

To pay the men, to please a bride,
To use their stone, to spite their neighbours,

Not for a profit on their labours.
They built to edify or bewilder;

I build because I am a builder.
Crescent and street and square I build,

Plaster and paint and carve and gild.
Around the city see them stand,

These triumphs of my shaping hand,
With bulging walls, with sinking floors,

With shut, impracticable doors,
Fickle and frail in every part,

And rotten to their inmost heart.
There shall the simple tenant find

Death in the falling window-blind,
Death in the pipe, death in the faucet,

Death in the deadly water-closet!
A day is set for all to die:

CAVEAT EMPTOR! what care I?'
As to Amphion's tuneful kit

Thebes rose, with towers encircling it;
As to the Mage's brandished wand

A spiry palace clove the sand;
To Thin's indomitable financing,

That phantomcrescent kept advancing.
When first the brazen bells of churches

Called clerk and parson to their perches,
The worshippers of every sect

Already viewed it with respect;
A second Sunday had not gone

Before the roof was rattled on:
And when the fourth was there, behold

The crescent finished, painted, sold!
The stars proceeded in their courses,

Nature with her subversive forces,
Time, too, the iron-toothed and sinewed,

And the edacious years continued.
Thrones rose and fell; and still the crescent,

Unsanative and now senescent,
A plastered skeleton of lath,

Looked forward to a day of wrath.
In the dead night, the groaning timber

Would jar upon the ear of slumber,
And, like Dodona's talking oak,

Of oracles and judgments spoke.
When to the music fingered well

The feet of children lightly fell,
The sire, who dozed by the decanters,

Started, and dreamed of misadventures.
The rotten brick decayed to dust;

The iron was consumed by rust;
Each tabid and perverted mansion

Hung in the article of declension.
So forty, fifty, sixty passed;

Until, when seventy came at last,
The occupant of number three

Called friends to hold a jubilee.
Wild was the night; the charging rack

Had forced the moon upon her back;
The wind piped up a naval ditty;



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