If once your Lady takes to play;
It pays beyond all formal dinners,
Only pay homage to the winners,
Which I'll be bound you always do,
At least I would if I were you.
Now if I've told you e'er a thumper,
Fine me, when next we meet, a bumper:
Yes, give us truth without a sting,
A bottle of the old 'Bee's Wing.'
THE COOK.
Although French Cooks be much too common,—
I speak now to an English woman,—
You would not wish to learn from books,
How you might stock the pastry-cooks,
And make my Lord pay carriage hence,
For gimcracks made at his expense!
Although, quite fearless of detection,
Some have 'arrived' at this perfection;
And yet, I fear, I must conclude
There's nothing of the kind in Ude,
And therefore you must farther look,
If wanting a "Complete French Cook!"
Be with the Butler always 'friends,'
And so make sure of both your 'ends.'
When all the rest are safe in bed,
As silent as if all were dead,
You find the Butler dainty prog,
Repaid as sure with luscious grog;
But still, if you outrun your tether,
'Tis odds you 'bundle' both together.
Avoid it,—treat him like a brother,
For you may 'never like another.'
You can make friends with every one,
So mind how my instructions run:
My lessons suit both town and country,
If you've the requisite effrontery.
Be sure to send up nothing 'cold,'
Unless particularly 'told;'
Get rid of it to some dear crony,
No matter whether fowl or coney.
If miss'd, then lay it to the rats,
Strange greyhounds or domestic cats:
(Poor things! 'tis hard that you should scout 'em,)
But harder still to do without 'em.
Then talk of 'magpies' for blue moons,
When 'maids' run short of forks and spoons:
I must confess how I do glory,
In that most true, most 'moving story.'
If there's no paper for your use
To light a fire or singe a goose,
Swear by the poker, tongs, and shovel,
You'll tear some from the 'last new Novel.'
If forc'd to own that you're the thief,
Say you'll "turn over a new leaf:"
Nay, should you rob (no new proceeding)
The very work your Master's reading,
Say that 'there's more besides the Cook,'
Should take a "leaf from Master's book."
If you should serve a family
So rich, they don't live crammily,
Broils you may have—nay, constant broiling,
Yet free from common roasting, boiling:
But stews and hashes bring much bother,—
Encourage neither one nor t'other;
Good Cooks still hate all diddle-daddle,
Constant, eternal fiddle-faddle.
But snipes and larks, that come as presents
(Instead of partridges and pheasants)
Placed in the pan, (a sort of toasting,)
Will cook themselves, whatever's roasting:
'Plague on't!' you wish the paltry elves
Would 'keep their presents to themselves.'
And so for once I catch you tripping,—
You long again for joints and dripping.
Would I be called on of a sudden
To make a plaguy 'sparra' pudden?'
I say at once, then, downright "No!
I'd see'em all at Jericho!"
And if they grumble, then give warning,
'As sure as eggs is eggs,' next morning;
And beg they'd please, in lieu of more freaks,
To "suit themselves as that day four weeks."
Who cares for their 'contempshus looks,'
Their "God
