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 whitebait delicious,
Borne past you officious;
And hear rather plainish
A sound that’s champagnish,
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: