Placed in the pan, (a sort of toasting,) Will cook themselves, whatever's roasting: 'Plague on't!' you wish the paltry elves Would 'keep their presents to themselves.' And so for once I catch you tripping,-- You long again for joints and dripping. Would I be called on of a sudden To make a plaguy 'sparra' pudden?' I say at once, then, downright "No! I'd see'em all at Jericho!" And if they grumble, then give warning, 'As sure as eggs is eggs,' next morning; And beg they'd please, in lieu of more freaks, To "suit themselves as that day four weeks." Who cares for their 'contempshus looks,' Their "God sends meat, the devil cooks;" They're only better sort of 'varments,' I says, "good Masters makes good Sarvants." If you're allow'd the kitchen stuff, Be sure the meat's done _quite_ enough; But if your Mistress 'claps _her_ paw,' Then serve it up downright 'red raw.' If fault be found, though, 'aither way,' "It shan't be so another day;" And still, against each new desire, Keep up a brisk and roaring fire. Let red hot coals the dripping savour, To give the meat a 'foreign flavour;' And say, whatever falls upon it, "The more there's in't, the more there's on it." When 'all behind,' and time the winner, 'Regarding sending up the dinner,' Alter the clock when you begin it, And you'll be ready to a minute. One secret now I'll not conceal,-- Whene'er you roast a breast of veal, The sweetbread is the Butler's luncheon, Whoever may go short of munching. If it be 'asked for,' make excuses For what so many sweets produces; Yet, O beware, his faith to prove, Beware, beware of cupboard love! Sops in the pan but feed desire, Till "all the fat is in the fire:" In Freedom's cause both risk your peace And, Byron-like,--expire in GREASE! [Illustration: THE VALET.] THE VALET.