The lounge of lawyers, doctors, merchants, beaux, cum multis aliis.
At half-past six the joint concern for eighteen pence is given you,
Half-pints of port are sent in ketchup-bottles to enliven you.
The Travellers are in Pall Mall, and smoke cigars so cosily,
And dream they climb the highest Alps or rove the plains of Moselai.
The world for them has nothing new, they have explored all parts of it,
And now they are club-footed, and they sit and look at charts of it.
The Orientals, homeward-bound, now seek their club much sallower,
And while they eat green fat they find their own fat growing yellower.
Their soup is made more savoury, till bile to shadows dwindles ’em,