Then waiter leans over To take off a cover From fowls which all beg of, A wing or a leg of; And while they all peck bone, You take to a neck bone, But even your hunger Declares for a younger. A fresh plate you call for, But vainly you bawl for: Now taste disapproves it, No waiter removes it. Still hope, newly budding, Relies on a pudding; But critics each minute Set fancy agin it-- “That’s queer Vermicelli.” “I say, Vizetelly, There’s glue in that jelly.” “Tarts bad altogether; That crust’s made of leather.” “Some custard, friend Vesey?” “No--batter made easy.” “Some cheese, Mr. Foster?” “--Don’t like single Glo’ster.” Meanwhile, to top table, Like fox in the fable, You see silver dishes, With those little fishes, The whitebait delicious Borne past you officious; And hear rather plainish A sound that’s champaignish, And glimpse certain bottles Made long in the throttles: And sniff--very pleasant! Grouse, partridge, and pheasant, And see mounds of ices For patrons and vices, Pine-apple, and bunches Of grapes for sweet munches, And fruits of all virtue That really _desert_ you. You’ve nuts, but not crack ones, Half empty, and black ones; With oranges sallow-- They can’t be called yellow-- Some pippins well wrinkled, And plums almond sprinkled, Some rout cakes, and so on, Then with business to go on; Long speeches are stutter’d, And toasts are well buttered, While dames in the gallery, All dressed in fallallery, Look on at the mummery: And listen to flummery. Hip, hip! and huzzaing, And singing and saying, Glees, catches, orations, And lists of donations. Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney-- “Mr. Benbow, one guinea; Mr. Frederick Manual, One guinea--and annual.” Song--Jockey and Jenny-- “Mr. Markham one guinea.” “Have you all filled your glasses?” Here’s a health to good lasses. The subscription still skinny-- “Mr. Franklin--one guinea.” Franklin looks like a ninny; “Mr. Boreham, one guinea-- Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney, Mr. Tempest--one guinea, Mr. Merrington--twenty,” Rough music, in plenty. Away toddles Chairman, The little dark spare man, Not sorry at ending, With white sticks attending, And some vain Tomnoddy Votes in his own body To fill the void seat up, And get on his feet up, To say, with voice squeaking, “Unaccustomed to speaking,” Which sends you off seeking Your hat, number thirty-- No coach--very dirty. So, hungry and fevered, Wet-footed, spoilt beavered, Eyes aching in socket, Ten pounds out of pocket, To Brook-street the Upper You haste home to supper. A CHARITY SERMON.