She bids her "Lor!"-exclaiming waitress

To cram with large, expensive coals,

The pretty traitress!

On daintiest overmantel's ledge

She sets enshrined your prosy platter;

Your salt-cellars she stocks with veg-

etable matter.

And when the Summer comes (if hail

For once not hails the sunny swallows)

Our fenders hold your statues pale