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Updated: June 1, 2025
Some months later a small journalistic flourish was heard on behalf of the discarded gentleman, upon the occasion of his being "received" into the Church of Rome, with all his sins forgiven, but so far as Weircombe was concerned, the story of himself and his "fav'rite" was soon forgotten, and his very name ceased to be uttered.
Quick, crafty, brisk as a cat an' with no more noise, Moon comes walkin' into the Red Light door. He sees Curly where he sits at seven-up, with his back turned towards him. "'One for jack! says Curly, turnin' that fav'rite kyard. Moon sort o' drifts to his r'ar.
Happy old man! here 'mid th' accustom'd streams And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams; While from yon willow-fence, thy picture's bound, The bees that suck their flow'ry stores around, Shall sweetly mingle with the whispering boughs Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose: While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard; Nor the soft-cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird, Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, Nor turtles from th' aerial elm to 'plain.
I wonder ye aint more 'uman like, seein' as yer fav'rite gel in the village was arskin' me t'other day if I 'adn't any yerb for to make a love-charm. 'Love-charm! sez I 'what does ye want that for, my gel? An' she up an' she sez 'I'd like to make Parson Arbroath eat it! Hor er hor er hor er! 'I'd like to make Parson Arbroath eat it! sez she. An' she's a foine strappin' wench, too!
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