The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger

Horace Smith (1779–1849)

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

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.