A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced The _petites soins_, tendered with so much good taste, To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed In a black leather belt well secured round his waist, And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced, So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste. The group on the shore Consisted of four; You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more; But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, What Malthus would term a "too dense population," Indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle That led away inland direct from the shingle, Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, Some two hundred yards above high-water mark; And thither the party, So cordial and hearty, Viz. an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he, The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding, To express, in indifferent French, all he feels, The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.-- They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin, All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, _Mon-Dieu_-ing, Grimacing, and what sailors call _parley-vooing_. * * * * * Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it? (Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one Call, at the Garrick, "a c--d Committee one," An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.) However, it's clear That, with sound table beer, Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer; Especially too When a person's wet through, And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do. Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage, And casting a truly delicious perfume Through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnish'd room; "Hot, smoking hot," On the fire was a pot Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what; For, famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes; Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse, Any more than poor Blogg did, when, seeing the reeky Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he In ecstasy mutter'd "By Jove, Cocky-leeky!" In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon, Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly, But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the _bouilli_. * * * * *