'Tis years since the first of those chops began grilling, Whose smell caused so many choice spirits to throng Where wags would insist though 'the spirits were swilling, The flesh was undoubtedly strong'! When Harlequin Rich entertained in his kitchen That circle which met round his sociable hearth, Where kidneys were roasted and cheese could be toasted By Johnson and Wilkes and Hogarth, And by most of Great Britain's more notable wits Whose counterparts nowadays dine at the Ritz. Some centuries later we find a revival; Once more 'Beef and Liberty' mingle and blend, Where now 'The Beefsteak' represents, without rival, _La vie de Bohème du_ West End! Here humorous rallies and jocular sallies Are heard at a board where the diet is plain, Where Clayton and Wortley conversed so alertly With Morris or poor Corney Grain, While Brookfield would coin some satirical phrase Which to-day he discovers in other men's plays! 'Tis said that the neophyte's nerves are affected, When first introduced here, his throat becomes dry; At sight of the eminent persons collected, He feels unaccountably shy; Till Bourchier, so breezy, makes ev'rything easy By slapping the newcomer hard on the back, Or Elliot (our Willie) says, 'Dinna be silly! Set doon an' we'll hae a gude crack!' When, greatly encouraged, though somewhat abashed, He orders stewed tripe or a 'sausage and mashed.' Here friendship and talk are the principal factors That make of this Club a resort beyond praise, For writers and soldiers, for lawyers and actors (Who dine here on matinée days). No cards are permitted, but wits can be pitted, And members in rivalry verbal may vie Who never play poker (although they've a Joe-Carr!) And deprecate _steaks_ that are high! While brains never weary and tongues never flag, As they do, I believe, at the Turf or the 'Rag'! CANTO VIII THE TRAVELLERS' Though clubs without number are suited to slumber, How few (as has often been noted) To rest and reposing, to dreaming and dozing, Are quite so completely devoted As that which is labelled, in language poetic, The final resort of the peripatetic! Here peace may be relished, in rooms unembellished By portraits, by prints or engravings, On sofas of leather, designed altogether To satisfy somnolent cravings, Where, clutching the _Times_ or the _Chronicle_ tightly, A member may slumber in public politely. A subtle aroma, conducive to coma, Which renders the coffee-room pleasant, Proves gratefully cloying to diners enjoying A snooze 'twixt the fish and the pheasant. The air, as it were, is with somnolence seething, And nothing is heard but their stertorous breathing! [Illustration]