Chapter 1

It was the Ancient Milliner Stood by his open door; The tale he told was something like A tale I'd heard before.

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I called forthwith a Hansom, and "Now, Cabman, drive!" I cried; "For I must get this bandbox home Before the eventide.

"The bride a-pacing up the aisle Mad as a dog would be, Without this sweet confection of Silk and passementerie."

Westward the good cab flew. The horse Was kick-some, wild, and gay; He tossed his head from side to side In an offensive way.

He tossed his head, he shook his mane, And he was big and black; He wore a little mackintosh Upon his monstrous back.

I mused upon that mackintosh, All mournfully mused I; It was too small a thing to keep So large a beastie dry.

And on we went up Oxford Street With a short, uneasy motion; What made the beast go sideways I Have not the faintest notion But we ran into an omnibus With a short, uneasy motion.

All in a hot, improper way. The rude 'bus-driver said, That them what couldn't drive a horse Should try a moke instead.

Never a word my cabman spoke-- No audible reply-- But, oh, a thousand scathing things He thought; and so did I.

"What ails thee, Ancient Milliner? What means thy ashen hue? Why look'st thou so?"--I murmured, "Blow!" And at my word _it blew_.