Patrick Regan has kindly shared the material from his George Heath site with readers of the Victorian Web, who may wish to consult the original.
I recollect one sultry summer's day
Reclining 'neath a sycamore to cool,
And watching listlessly some ducks at play
Across the road, upon a muddy pool.
And looking up, beheld the great M.D.
Of Chillingworth come riding slowly down,
With pompous air, which shows (at least to me)
If not a hollow heart, an empty crown.
His clothes were of that cut that marks the fop:
A turban hat encased his meagre brains;
His whiskers hung in style — a wondrous crop;
And on his neck reclined a cold watch chain.
A moustache graced his shrewish upper lip;
His eyes were small; his cheeks were red and fat;
His burly nose was crimson at the tip;
His brow, if such he had, was 'neath his hat.
And there he sat upright in awful state,
As though the shameless egotist would say
Earth holds no other man so wise, so great —
Ye simple, meaner ones, stand back, give way.
Of course, too proud to notice such as I,
He passed in silence on his jaded hack;
The ducks popped up their heads, and, looking sly,
Bawled after him in chorus, Quack, quack, quack!
Last modified 4 September 2002