But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about, Like a Turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out champagne ! done with Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute-or, may hap, Chambertin*, which you know's the pet tipple of NAP, And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler, Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.— Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then, DICK, 's The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix, And to Jove's immortal throng While, with snowy hands, for me, KATE the china tea-cup rinses, * The favourite wine of Napoleon. (If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't, I'd swallow ev'n W-TK-NS', for sake of the end on't,) A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips queer in't!) — The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad, And the world enough air'd for us, Nobs, to appear in't, We lounge up the Boulevards, where-oh, DICK, the phyzzes, The turn-outs, we meet. what a nation of quizzes! With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.; Inflicts, without ev'n a court-martial, on hundreds.+ Velours en bouteille. It was said by Wicquefort, more than a hundred years Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye, In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde. some ones We've seen about WHITE's-the Mounseers are but rum ones; Such hats!-fit for monkies-I'd back Mrs. DRAPER To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper: And coats-how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em, They'd club for old BR-MM-L, from Calais, to dress 'em! The collar sticks out from the neck such a space, That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this headlopping nation, To leave there behind them a snug little place For the head to drop into, on decapitation. In short, what with mountebanks, counts, and friseurs, Some mummers by trade, and the rest amateurs ago, "Le Roi d'Angleterre fait seul plus de chevaliers que tous les autres Rois de la Chrétienté ensemble."- What would he say now? What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches, Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, And shoeblacks reclining by statues in niches, There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats! From the Boulevards-but hearken!-yes-as I'm a sinner, The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner: So no more at present-short time for adorning My Day must be finish'd some other fine morning. Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'* larder, my boy! And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is * A celebrated restaurateur. R. FUDGE. LETTER IV. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO "RETURN!". -no, never, while the withering hand Of bigot power is on that hapless land; While, for the faith my fathers held to God, * "They used to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore-mentioned verse of the Psalmist (If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' &c.) or the words-The memory of the desolation.""-Leo of Modena. |