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,
Of 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 honor;
Mr. Clark, when at leisure,
Will really feel pleasure;
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 whi