A CHAUNT FOR THE CHOUSED.
Dine? who'd dine
At eight shillings a head, or even nine,
With the heaviest price for the lightest wine?
Ah! that house I know too well,
'Tis your "first-class" Hotel:
Sad "Tales of my Landlord" there they tell.
Far better for me
To order tea,
And go dinnerless at that hostelry.
Sleep? who'd sleep
Where a standing army their quarters keep,
And in countless legions upon you creep?
Ah! whose form is that I see,—
A flea! Sirs, a flea!
He cometh to sup off me.
Far better, say I,
On the sofa to lie;
I prefer his room to his company.
Stay? who'd stay
To be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way,
And live at the rate of a fortune a day?
Ah! who'll expose their crimes?
The Times, Sirs, the Times,
The waiter his fee declines:
Tell the landlord from me
Him further I'll see,
Ere again I'll be fleeced at his hostelry.
He came—smiled—and said nothing!—Such is Mr. Punch's short-hand report of the interview granted by the Earl of Clarendon to the Finsbury deputation on the Eastern question.