How the Author sometimes Dines.
And now by your leave I will try to expound it,
In truth as it is and the way that I found it.
My dinner, sometimes, like things transcendental
And things more substantial, like women and wine
A thing is, uncertain, and quite accidental,
And sometimes I wonder, “Oh! where shall I dine?”
It was when reflecting one evening of late,
What tavern or hotel or dining-room skinner,
With table cloth dirty and dirtier plate,
Would give me a nausea and call it a dinner,
I met with Jack Merdle, a name fully known
As good for a million in Stock-gamblers' Street,
Where none but a nabob or forger high flown
With “bulls” or with “bears” need look for a seat.
Merdle the Banker.
Now Merdle this day having toss'd with his horns
The bears that were pulling so hard at the stocks,
And gored every bull that was treading his corns,
Had lined all his pockets with “plenty of rocks,”
And home now was driving at “two forty” speed,
Where dinner was waiting—“a jolly good feed.”
Himself feeling happy, he knew by my looks,
A case full of sadness and deep destitution
Was present in person, not read of in books,
Appealing in pity for an alms institution.