At four bells (ten P. M.,) up from the cards and down again at the table,
To drink champaigne and eat cold chicken as long as we were able:
With very slight variations this was the daily life we led,
Breakfast, whist; lunch, whist; dinner, whist; supper, whist; and then to bed.
The sea, for aught we know, was like that which Coleridge’s mariners sailed on;
We never looked at it, nor the sky, nor the stars; and our captain railed on,
But still we played, until one day there was a sudden dismemberment of our party;
We had dined on soup à la tortu, (made of pig’s feet,) of which Madame ate uncommonly hearty;
And had just resumed our game; it was her cut, but she made no motion;
‘Cut, Madame,’ said I; ‘Good Heavens!’ exclaimed her partner, ‘I’ve a notion