[Written Dec. 31, 1857. There is a poem by Sydney Dobell with the same name, and something like this—but not very.]
It’s the last night of the year, boys,
You may bring out the bread and beer, boys,
We’ve nought else to do to-night, boys,
This crust is too hard to bite, boys,
Is the donkey all right in the stable, boys?
Set two or three chairs round the table, boys,
We must have some’at to eat afore we go, boys,
Stick another coal on the fire or so, boys,
For the night’s very cold,
And I’m very old,
And Tommy’s dead.
Will somebody go and call t’owd wife, boys?
And just, while you’re about it, fetch another knife, boys,
Get the loaf and cut me a slice, boys,
And how about the cheese, is it nice, boys?
I asked just now for a slice of bread, boys,
I say—did you hear what I said, boys?
There’s no end of crumb, seep up the floor, boys,
Mind you don’t forget to bar the door, boys,
For the night’s very cold, boys,
And I’m very old, boys,
And Tommy’s dead.
Is there any more beer in the jug, boys?
You may as well fill up my mug, boys,
Is there any left still? no, I drank it, boys,
I shall want an extra blanket, boys,
I’m an early body, you mun wake me in t’morning, boys,
Not that I can get up without warning, boys,
I’m not the sort that wakes all of a minute, boys,
When I’m once in my bed I likes to stop in it, boys,
For the night’s very cold,
And I’m very old,
And Tommy’s dead.
Come, cheer up your old daddy like men, boys,
Why, I declare it’s nigh upon half-past ten, boys!
Bread’s not much, I’d rather have had some tripe, boys,
D’ye think there’s time for a quiet pipe, boys?
There’d be beer enough, if it hadn’t been spilt, boys,
I wish I were snug under my quilt, boys,
I does so like having a talk o’ nights, boys!
Ah! boys, you’re young, I’ve seen a pack o’ sights, boys,
When you’ve lived as long as I, you’ll know what it is, boys,
Lads like you think it’s all to be done in a whiz, boys,
Well, you may carry me upstairs, it’s so late, boys,
If it wasn’t for the beer, I’m not much weight, boys,
My gout’s not so well, so mind how you go, boys,
Some of you’ll catch it, if you tread upon my toe, boys,
Gently now, don’t trip up on the mat, boys,
There, I told you so, you stupid you, take that, boys!
It’s good for you, and keeps my hands warm, boys,
I shan’t apologize—quite an unnecessary form, boys,
For the night’s very cold,
And I’m very old,
And Tommy’s dead.
[Additional Note.—The last three lines of each paragraph, and the second line of the poem, (perhaps the first as well,) are by Sydney Dobell. For the rest the Editor is responsible: he has taken a less melancholy view of the subject than the original writer did, in support of which theory he begs to record his firm conviction that “Tommy” was a cat. Recollections of its death cause a periodical gloom to come over the father’s mind, accompanied always by the other two grounds of complaint which appear to have continually weighed upon him, cold and age: this gloom, we find, was only to be dispelled by one of three things, supper, the prospect of bed, and ill-temper.
There is something very instructive in the fact that the boys are never rude enough to interrupt, and probably never attend till he suggests going to bed, when they carry out his wishes with affectionate, almost unseemly, haste.]