HOW A HUNDRED GUESTS MET THEIR DEATH.
"There seems to be hardly a single ailment not traceable to the poulterer or butcher."—Daily Paper.
"HALF a duck, half a duck,
Guests do not shirk ye;
Eat, 'tis the Christmas luck,
Eat a whole turkey!"
Little thought they of pain,
Killed they the plate again,
Why would ye not refrain?
On to death, onward!
Death was to right of them,
Death was to left of them,
Death right in front of them,
Death in that conger!
Long did they feast, and well,
How long I cannot tell,
Till they began to yell,
"Cannot eat longer!"
Ate they the tables bare,
Swept they the platter clear,
While the host wondered.
Wrapped in the pudding's smoke,
Right through its midst they broke,
Mince pies were sundered!
Then sank they back; but not—
Not the same hundred.
Judy, January 16, 1884.