V
THE GOURMAND
(A Ballad of Reading Grill)
He did not wear his swallow-tail,
But a simple dinner-coat;
For once his spirits seemed to fail,
And his fund of anecdote.
His brow was drawn and damp and pale,
And a lump stood in his throat.
I never saw a person stare,
With looks so dour and blue,
Upon the square of bill-of-fare
We waiters call the "M'noo,"
And at ev'ry dainty mentioned there,
From entrée to ragout.
With head bent low, and cheeks aglow,
He viewed the groaning board,
For he wondered if the chef would show
The treasures of his hoard,
When a voice behind him whispered low,
"Sherry or 'ock, my lord?"
Gods! What a tumult rent the air,
As, with a frightful oath,
He seized the waiter by the hair
And cursed him for his sloth;
Then, grumbling like some stricken bear,
Angrily answered "Both!"
For each man drinks the thing he loves,
As tonic, dram or drug;
Some do it standing, in their gloves,
Some seated, from a jug;
The upper class from slim-stemmed glass,
The masses from a mug.
....*....*....*....*
The wine was slow to bring him woe,
But when the meal was through,
His wild remorse at ev'ry course
Each moment wilder grew.
For he who thinks to mix his drinks
Must mix his symptoms too.