Who, that hath heard poor Charity’s appeal And nobly paid a guinea for a meal (Where soup and fish And every new-made dish, Just verged upon the cold; Or else the _very_ tough, or _very_ old―― Except the tepid salad, which appear’d Fresh gather’d from the hot-bed where ’twas rear’d), Can e’er forget, O Toole! thy coat of blue With dazzling metal buttons spangled o’er―― The yard of broad black ribbon, whereunto Appends the eye-glass thro’ which thou dost pore Over the list of toasts, ere thou dost bawl With such stentorian lungs, That we opine the walls of old Guildhall Are each endowèd with a thousand tongues―― “Silence!” To hear that Patagonian shout Is to obey. The hand that’s in the act of pouring out Is forced to stay―― “Non Nobis!!!” The greediest crammer Deserts his plate, roused by thy voice and hammer. * * * * * The buzz of bottle-drawing’s at its height; Brown takes wine with Smith, and Briggs with Bright, Hark! To that thunder, eloquent o’er all―― Toole! ’tis thy call. Of “Silence if you please――order for the chair!” As with an exquisite and finished air, (Worthy of――Widdicomb, when he essays To fix some shilling-gallery beauty’s gaze), You wave your paper _bâton_ o’er the head Of him who, like Olympian Jove, is seated there, And guides _your_ voice the thunder of the “Chair!” Who ne’er,――when public dinner port began To, Circe-wise, transmogrify the man, Hath found the rising hiccup downward driven, When, Toole! thy lungs this glorious toast have given―― “The Queen, with three times three! “Hip, hip, hurrah!――Silence for a glee!” * * * * * Farewell, thou King of Sentiment and Toast! Long may’st thou rule the roast At philanthropic and at civic dinner! Long may Lachesis (that old maiden spinner) Keep thy thread going, and long may we Hear you declare “Silence in the Chair! Messrs. Hobbs, Dobbs, Snobbs, will ’blige you with a glee.” _Punch_, November, 1843. ―――― ODE ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY. (_A long way after Pope._) Descend, great Bunn!――descend and bring A furnace of poetic fire; Nib fifty pens, and take your fling, Boldly of foolscap fill a quire. In a namby-pamby strain, Let the tenor first complain; Let the falsetto sound, With nasal twang around, ’Till in applause ’tis drown’d. Then in more ponderous notes and slow, Let the deep bass go down, extremely low. Hark the shrill soprano near Bursts upon the startled ear! Higher and higher does she rise, And fills with awful screams the flies, By straining and shrieking she reaches the notes, Out of tune, out of time too, the wild music floats; Till by degrees the vigorous bawl, Seems to decay, And melts away In a feeble, feeble squall.