THE PRIDE OF ENGLAND.
(A slight liberty taken with the "Bride of Abydos".)
Know ye the Inn where the laurel and myrtle
Well emblem the green who are done 'neath its sign?
Where they serve you on plate which is mock as their turtle,
Now fleecing the tourist, now maddening the Times?
Know ye the shams of that ill-managed house,
Where the host ever bows, and the bills ever chouse;
Where the "wax-lights" that don't half illumine your room
Give a muttonish rather than waxy perfume;
Where, although you don't see half a waiter all day,
For "attendance" as much as a lawyer's you pay,
And find even then there's an extra for "Boots:"
Nor the porters in asking for liquids are mutes;
Where your "bottle of Sherry" (Cape, under disguise,)
Scarce equals the vinegar-cruet in size,
And analysation completely defies;
Where the sofas are soft as yourself if you dine
At eight shillings a head—perchance even nine,
With the heaviest price for the lightest of wine?—
'Tis the English Hotel: and 'tis twenty to one
That, where'er you may enter it, brown you'll be done.
For more than e'en Punch in a volume could tell,
Are the shams they serve there, and the victims they sell.