Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, ‘I sound my warison;’ Scott, the superlative of my comparative— Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of humanity. I write the world, nor care if the world read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so—now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. The conference or congress (for it ended As congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended Some acids with the sweets—for she was heady; But, ere the matter could be marr’d or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for ‘dinner ready, But for that hour, call’d half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies’ robes seem scant enough for less. Great things were now to be achieved at table, With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer ’s able (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, Than witches, b—ches, or physicians, brew. There was a goodly ‘soupe a la bonne femme,’ Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with ‘dindon à la Parigeux;’ There also was—the sinner that I am! How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?— ‘Soupe à la Beauveau,’ whose relief was dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. But though a ‘bonne vivante,’ I must confess Her stomach ’s not her peccant part; this tale However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. Fowls ‘à la Condé,’ slices eke of salmon, With ‘sauces Génévoises,’ and haunch of venison; Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon— A man like whom I hope we shan’t see many soon; They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra’s melted pearls.