This poem was originally recorded for the April Fool’s Day episode for 2020, but I’vew shifted everything forward so that people in the Corona lockdown have more material to enjoy.
It’s by Horace Smith, and was recorded by a group of people at Librivox. Thanks to all of the recorders.
Statistics eventually.
The poem
In Broad Street building (on a winter night),
Snug by his parlor-fire, a gouty wight
Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing
His feet rolled up in fleecy hose:
With t’ other he ’d beneath his nose 5
The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing,
He noted all the sales of hops,
Ships, shops, and slops;
Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin,
Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin;
When lo! a decent personage in black
Entered and most politely said,—
“Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track
To the King’s Head,
And left your door ajar; which I
Observed in passing by,
And thought it neighborly to give you notice.”
“Ten thousand thanks; how very few get,
In time of danger,
Such kind attention from a stranger!
Assuredly, that fellow’s throat is
Doomed to a final drop at Newgate:
He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf!)
That there ’s no soul at home except myself.”
“Indeed,” replied the stranger (looking grave),
“Then he ’s a double knave;
He knows that rogues and thieves by scores
Nightly beset unguarded doors:
And see, how easily might one
Of these domestic foes,
Even beneath your very nose,
Perform his knavish tricks;
Enter your room, as I have done,
Blow out your candles—thus—and thus—
Pocket your silver candlesticks,
And—walk off—thus”—
So said, so done; he made no more remark
Nor waited for replies,
But marched off with his prize,
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.
Games From Folktales 