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And Chinamen batten on birds' nests and dogs,
While Frenchmen with _vin ordinaire_ (such a weak wine! )
Ingurgitate molluscs and frogs,
The Briton, old-fashioned, in language empassioned,
On underdone oxen demands to be fed;
His soul seems to glory in steaks that are gory,
He 'looks on the kine when they're red,'
And all his carnivorous cravings awake
When somebody happens to name 'The Beefsteak.'
Whose smell caused so many choice spirits to throng
Where wags would insist though 'the spirits were swilling,
The flesh was undoubtedly strong'!
When Harlequin Rich entertained in his kitchen
That circle which met round his sociable hearth,
Where kidneys were roasted and cheese could be toasted
By Johnson and Wilkes and Hogarth,
And by most of Great Britain's more notable wits
Whose counterparts nowadays dine at the Ritz.
Once more 'Beef and Liberty' mingle and blend,
Where now 'The Beefsteak' represents, without rival,
_La vie de Boheme du_ West End!
Here humorous rallies and jocular sallies
Are heard at a board where the diet is plain,
Where Clayton and Wortley conversed so alertly
With Morris or poor Corney Grain,
While Brookfield would coin some satirical phrase
Which to-day he discovers in other men's plays!
When first introduced here, his throat becomes dry;
At sight of the eminent persons collected,
He feels unaccountably shy;
Till Bourchier, so breezy, makes ev'rything easy
By slapping the newcomer hard on the back,
Or Elliot (our Willie) says, 'Dinna be silly!
Set doon an' we'll hae a gude crack! '
When, greatly encouraged, though somewhat abashed,
He orders stewed tripe or a 'sausage and mashed.'
That make of this Club a resort beyond praise,
For writers and soldiers, for lawyers and actors
(Who dine here on matinee days).
No cards are permitted, but wits can be pitted,
And members in rivalry verbal may vie
Who never play poker (although they've a Joe-Carr! )
And deprecate _steaks_ that are high!
While brains never weary and tongues never flag,
As they do, I believe, at the Turf or the 'Rag'!
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