How soft those whiskered waiters tread, Their dishes dexterously handing! 'Twould seem (as some one aptly said) As though a nobleman lay dead Upon an upper landing, In such tranquillity and quiet Do members masticate their diet!
Yes, here is peace, that 'perfect peace,' With loved ones safely at a distance, Which men demand who seek release From cares that cause the brow to crease And poison the existence; Peace, comatose -- nay, cataleptic -- Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic!
The special feature of the place Is that it has no special feature; Its tone is that of frigid grace With which the Briton loves to face Each human fellow-creature. Here sire meets son, or brother brother, And neither need address the other!
Within this dignified retreat, From Government or Opposition, The Whigs of all opinions meet, Eyeing each other, as they eat, With looks of dumb suspicion. Here Unionist regards Home Ruler With feelings daily growing cooler.
Through Brooks's battered ballot-box His way to fame a man may well win, Who sits where Sheridan and Fox Discoursed of dice or fighting-cocks With Wilberforce and Selwyn; Where modern wits and legislators Converse with no one but the waiters!
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