Narcissus in the wave did never ponder, With love so strong, On his “portrait charmant,” As our vain butcher on his carcass yonder. Look at his sleek round skull! How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is! His visage seems to be Ripe for beef-tea; Of brutal juices the whole man is full-- In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis, The Butcher is already half a Bull. A PUBLIC DINNER. “Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide.”--ARABIAN NIGHTS. At seven you just nick it, Give card--get wine ticket; Walk round through the Babel, From table to table, To find--a hard matter-- Your name in a platter; Your wish was to sit by Your friend Mr. Whitby, But Steward’s assistance Has placed you at distance, And, thanks to arrangers, You sit among strangers; But too late for mending; Twelve sticks come attending A stick of a Chairman, A little dark spare man, With bald shining nob, ‘Mid Committee swell-mob; In short, a short figure, You thought the Duke bigger; Then silence is wanted, _Non Nobis_ is chanted; Then Chairman reads letter, The Duke’s a regretter, A promise to break it, But chair he can’t take it; Is grieved to be from us, But sends friend Sir Thomas, And what is far better, A cheque in the letter. Hear! hear! and a clatter, And there ends the matter. Now soups come and fish in, And C---- brings a dish in; Then rages the battle, Knives clatter, forks rattle, Steel forks with black handles, Under fifty wax candles; Your soup-plate is soon full, You sip just a spoonful. Mr. Roe will be grateful To send him a plateful; And then comes the waiter, “Must trouble for tater;” And then you drink wine off With somebody--nine off; Bucellas made handy, With Cape and bad Brandy, Or East India Sherry, That’s very hot--very. You help Mr. Myrtle, Then find your mock-turtle Went off, while you lingered, With waiter light-fingered. To make up for gammon, You order some salmon, Which comes to your fauces With boats without sauces. You then make a cut on Some Lamb big as Mutton; And ask for some grass too, But that you must pass too; It served the first twenty, But toast there is plenty. Then, while lamb gets coldish, A goose that is oldish-- At carving not clever-- You’re begged to dissever, And when you thus treat it, Find no one will eat it. So, hungry as glutton, You turn to your mutton, But--no sight for laughter-- The soup it’s gone after. Mr. Green then is very Disposed to take Sherry, And then Mr. Nappy Will feel very happy; And then Mr. Conner Requests the same honour; Mr. Clarke, when at leisure, Will really feel pleasure;