THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
HAVE a friend in Eaton Place—
A very wealthy man—
Whose house is one I love to grace
As often as I can.
His meats are always of the best,
His wines are rich and rare;
A footman, elegantly drest,
Keeps watch behind my chair.
I like the meats—I love the wine—
(For, give me leave to say,
'Tis very seldom that I dine
In that expensive way.)
But what is gold and silver plate,
And what is dainty fare?
They cannot make me tolerate
The man behind my chair.
Perchance I venture on a pun,
A quip, or else a crank;
Amongst my auditors is one
Whose face remains a blank.
I hear the table in a roar,
Loud laughter fills the air;
But no—it simply seems to bore
The man behind my chair.
I talk about my Lady This,
Or else my Lady That;
Sometimes an Honourable Miss
Comes in extremely pat.
I quote the Earl of So-and-So,
Of Such-and-Such a square;
But, socially, I feel below
The man behind my chair.
Upon the summit of ipy crown
I have a trifling patch:
A little white amidst the brown,
An opening in the thatch.
From all my fellow-men but one
I hide my loss of hair:
He sees it though; I cannot shun
The man behind my chair.
Some day, should Fortune only smile
Upon my low estate,
I mean to feed in such a style
As few can emulate.
Should ever such a lot be mine,
I solemnly declare
That I will banish, when I dine,
The man behind my chair.