As the room on whose table the dinner things meet;
Oh the last gout for good things from life must depart
Ere the love of that table shall fade from my heart.
Yet it wasn’t that turtle had shed o’er the dish
Its richest of gravy (that notable fish!)
’Twas not the soft magic of guzzle and fill—
Oh no, it was something more drinkable still.
’Twas that wines, the beloved of my palate, were there
That made every dear slice of the turkey more dear,
And which taught me to feel that my looks were not hurt,