Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger
At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger—
But oh! how I wished I were younger,
When the goodies all came in a stream—in a stream!
“I’ve a splendid blood-horse, and—a liver
That it jars into torture to trot;
My row-boat’s the gem of the river—
Gout makes every knuckle a knot!
I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,
But no palate for ménus, no eyes for a dome—