BEFORE DINNER, AND AFTER.
Guests were assembled—formal, prim, and staid—
The conversation did not yet come pat in;
The bachelor found speeches ready made,
The ready maid looked twice as hard as Latin;
The lord was stiff—the lady half afraid
To spoil her silk dress with the chair she sat in!
A dreadful dull demureness fill'd the place;
Room-attics might be caught on that first-floor;
No racy word from all the human race
There gathered—nothing to create a roar—
Weather and poetry their themes of grace—
They talked of snow, and Byron,—nothing Moore.
There broke no pun upon the startled ear—
Nothing the soul of etiquette to smother;
None were at home, but each on each did leer,
As who should say, "You're out," and "Does your mother?"
Their words were dry, and yet they did appear
To throw cold water upon one another!
They stood, or sat, like lumps of social stone,
Their wheel of life went round, yet no one spoke;
Or, if they did, not speeches from the thrown
From horse or gig, were more devoid of joke;
The little fire that, in the grate had grown
Dim, had a longing for a stir, or poke.
The hes were stupid, and, it might be said,
The shes were as uneasy as the hes:
It was all heavy there, and nothing led
To anything, but minding Q's and P's;
While every heart was absent, every head
Ran upon "soup, fish, flesh, fowl, tart, and cheese."
Nothing was on the carpet, when there came
This bright announcement:—"Dinner on the table!"
Then wagg'd the tongues, which soon began to frame
A young confusion, like to bees, or Babel,
And each face wore a smile, that quite became,
Just as a doctor's bottle wears a label.
Before dinner and after.
Dinner pass'd over—they were quite genteel;
The wine went very fast and freely round;
None vulgarly, that day, took malt with meal,
But still in the best spirits all were found;
As they sat at the table, they did feel
As if their soles would never touch the ground.
The cloth was cut, and the dessert was spread,
Fresh bottles crown'd the hospitable board,
Their jolly cheeks grew fast from white to red;
So pass'd the wine—their bark of life was moor'd
Quite safe in port, while head did nod to head
Familiar as the scabbard to the sword.
Now grew the conversation fast to fruit,
The fruit had grown already very fine;
The wine produced no whining, and, to boot;
No epicure repined about the pine;
But Love did all around his arrows shoot,
Lanced from his beaux against the ladies fine.
Each Miss's joke now made a pleasant hit,
No lover's sally could be deem'd a miss;
Less stately, too, the dowagers did sit—
They let their feelings loose on that and this;
Their tongues, in fact, were bridled not a bit—
The prude would have said "thank ye" for a kiss.
The guests gave out a host of best good things,
By way of compliment to their good host;
Brim full of eloquence, a friend upsprings,
And hopes that he will always rule the roast
The praises of the belles another rings,
And turns, at once, "the Ladies" to a toast.
So freedom reigns; whereby it seemeth clear
That people grow most cordial after dinner;
Till then, the dearest woman seems less dear,
The thinnest gentleman's thin wit grows thinner;
The cheerful will be cheerless, without cheer—
You must have meat and drink, as you're a sinner!
