WHO comes when called for, all agree, Is 'servant' good as good can be; Therefore, to save a deal of bother, Speak for yourself, and for no other. To put your Masters off their mettle, And all disputes the sooner settle, The only way is not to 'bend,' But 'give as good as they can send.' Never tell tales of one another, Except of some too favoured brother; But there it seems a rule confest To heap the faults of all the rest: I quite agree with Mister Gray, To get all favourites 'turn'd away.' Bribe little masters and young misses With sugar-plums and slobb'ring kisses. Thus they will say, "How good you are!" And tell no tales to Pa or Mar. Let every servant feel as great, As if his Master's whole estate Were meant to furnish prog and pelf But for his individual self. The Cook, for instance, thinks it queer If twenty thousand pounds a-year Won't make the household richly dine,-- And so the Butler thinks of wine. Groom, Coachman, all the rest 'run on,' Till sometimes all the money's gone. "Fortune's a jilt," and "plague upon her!" You did it all for "Master's honour!" And though yourselves alone have brought it, You're first to cry out "Who'd ha' thought it?" Yet this may caution some on entry, Not to set up too soon for gentry. When upon errands you are sent, (On something else, of course, intent) And absent more than half the day, Come back 'not knowing what to say;' Then is the time you'll see the uses Of a whole set of 'good excuses:' "A near relation came a distance, And really needing your assistance,-- An uncle whom you'd never seen From 'such times' you were seventeen, And all that you could raise (alack!) Was scarce enough to take him back."-- "Some one, to whom you'd money lent, Was making for the Continent."-- Make out a story,--cram it full: The _cock_ won't fight?--then try the _bull_. "A 'peeler' had the nation gnous To clap you in the station-house, Where you were 'kep' the morning 'through,' Quite ignorant of what to do, Although you'd rather lie in jail, Than ask his honour to stand bail; And all because (though past belief) You bore some likeness to a thief! A fifth, 'more betterer' than all, Was shipping off 'towards Bengal.' "You went to try to use your tongue, To save a friend from being hung; You wrench'd your foot 'aginst a stone,' And 'laid' your ancle to the bone; Which gave you such a horrid 'feel,' The Doctor thinks 'twill never heal. But still you must submit to fate, And hope you're not a _deal_--too late." Yet if, not mending much the case, You swear till near 'black in the face;' If each fresh story they despise, Though doing all that in you lies; Confess, and say from earliest youth