DYSPEPSIA.
THE dinner hour had come at last,
The evening sun was sinking fast;
I sat me down in sorry mood,
And darkly look'd upon the food.
Dyspepsia!
My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd,
And o'er the steaming potage gleam'd;
Alas! not mine to find relief
In whitebait's flavour bright and brief.
Dyspepsia!
"Try not the duck," my conscience said;
'Twill lie upon your chest like lead;
Delusion all, that bird so fair;
The sage and onions are a snare.
Dyspepsia!
"Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd
A portion of a chicken's breast;
I view'd the fowl with longing eye,
Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh,
Dyspepsia!
I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare
A brace of pheasants and a hare;
A tear stood in my bilious eye,
When helping friends to pigeon-pie.
Dyspepsia!
"Beware the celery, if you please;
Beware the awful Stilton cheese."
This was the doctor's last good-night;
I answered feebly, turning white,
"Dyspepsia!"
The scarcely-tasted dinner done,
Old Port and walnuts next came on;
I kept my mouth all closely shut;
But how I long'd for just one nut!
Dyspepsia!
Some nuts I had, at early day,
(Morn was just breaking cold and grey),
I, starting up, with loud ha! ha!
Felt falling, like a falling star.
Dyspepsia!
The Mocking Bird, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst, London, 1868.)