Nothing to Eat | Page 4

so quite unexpected!
For dinner, if any, I'm sure I can't say,
Our servants with washing are
all so infected.
If any's provided, 't is nothing but scraps
Of pot-luck or pick up of
some common fare;
Or something left over from last week perhaps,

Which you've brought a friend, and an old one, to share.
I never, I'm sure now, so much was ashamed,
To think he'll
discover--what's true to the letter--
We've nothing, or next to't that's
fit to be named,
For one who is used every day to what's better.
But what can you expect if you come on a Monday?
Our French
cook's away too, I vow and declare--
But if you would see us with
something to spare,
Let's know when you're coming, or come on a
Sunday;
For that of all others, for churchmen or sinners,
A day is
for gorging with extra good dinners.
[Illustration: "AND THAT IS JUST WHAT, AS OUR BUTCHER
EXPLAINS, THE DICKENS HAS PLAYED WITH OUR BEEF
AND OUR MUTTON."]
If Merdle had told me a friend would be here,
A dinner I'd get up in
spite of the bills--
I often tell butcher he's wonderful dear--
He says

every calf that a butcher now kills,
Will cost near as much as the
price of a steer,
Before all the banks in their discount expanded
And
flooded the country with 'lamp-black and rags,'
Which poor men has
ruined and shipwrecked and stranded
On Poverty's billows and
quick-sands and crags.
And that is just what, as our butcher explains,
The dickens has played
with our beef and our mutton;
But something is gained, for, with all
of his pains,
The poor man won't make of himself such a glutton.
I'm sure if they knew what a sin 't is to eat,
When things are all
selling at extravagant prices,
That poor folks more saving would be
of their meat,
And learn by example how little suffices.
I wish they could see for themselves what a table--
What examples
we set to the laboring poor,
In prudence, and saving, in those who are
able
To live like a king and his court on a tour.
I feel, I acknowledge, sometimes quite dejected
To think, as it
happens with you here today,
To drop in so sudden and quite
unexpected,
How poor we are living some people will say.
Mrs. Merdle goes to Market.
With prices outrageous they charge now for meat,
And servants so
worthless are every day growing,
I wonder we get half enough now to
eat,
And shouldn't if 't want for the fact of my going
To market to
cheapen potatoes and beef,
And talk to the butchers about their
abuses,
And listen to stories beyond our belief,
They tell while they
cheat us, by way of excuses.
And grocers--do tell us--is 't legal to charge
Such prices for sugar,
and butter, and flour?
Oh, why don't the Mayor in his wisdom enlarge
Both weight and

measure as he does 'doubtful power?'
The Dinner-bell Rings.
Mrs. Merdle Describes the Sufferings of Dyspepsia and its Remedy.
But come, now, I hear by the sound of the ringing
That dinner is
ready; and time none to spare
To finish our eating in time for the
singing
At Niblo's; or at Burton's drop in for a stare.
To 'kill time' the object, whatever the source is,
And that is the reason
we sit at the table
And call for our dinner in slow-coming courses,

To kill, while we eat, all the time we are able.
Though little, I told you, that's worthy your taste
You'll find on our
table, pray don't think us mean--
Your welcome is ample--that's better
than waste--
Oh! here comes the soup in a silver tureen--
'Tis mock
turtle too--so good for digestion:
That kills me by inches, the
wretched complaint
Dyspepsia--to cure which, I take by suggestion

Port-wine in the soup, when I feel slightly faint.
The Dinner Table Talk.
Now soup, if you like made of beef very nice,
You'll find this the
next thing to the height of perfection; And eaten with ketchup, or
thickened with rice,
Will suit you I know, if this is your selection.
My own disposition to this one inclines,
But dreadful dyspepsia
destroys all the pleasure
Of dinner, except it's well tinctured with
wines
Which plan I adopt as a health-giving measure.
A table well ordered, well furnished, and neat,
No wonder our nature
for ever is tempting;
And I'd like to know if Mahomet could beat
Its
pleasures--dyspepsia for ever exempting--
With all that he promised
in paradise gained,
With Houris attendant in place of the churls

With which we are worried, tormented, and pained--
The colored men

servants, or green Irish girls.
Mrs. Merdle doubts Paradise's Uneating Pleasure.
Though Houris are handsome, though lovely the place--
More lovely
perhaps than our own country seat--
I never could see, in the light of
free grace
What pleasure they have there with nothing to eat.
With nothing to wear, if the climate is suiting,
We might get along I
am sure pretty well;
No washing and starching and crimping and
fluting,
No muslin and laces and trouble of dressing, they tell,
E'er
troubles the women,