‘Dulce et desipere in loco’
   Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.
When a rapt audience has encored ‘Fra Poco’
   Or ‘Casta Diva,’ I have heard that then
The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,
Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,
   Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?
What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry,
   But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?
Nay stout itself—(though good with oysters, very)—
   Is not a thing your reading man should take.
He that would shine, and petrify his tutor,
Should drink draught Allsop in its “native pewter.”

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—
   A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.
Its tinkling tells me that a time is near
   Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.
O blessed Bell!  Thou bringest beef and beer,
   Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:
Seared is (of course) my heart—but unsubdued
Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go.  Untaught and feeble is my pen:
   But on one statement I may safely venture;
That few of our most highly gifted men
   Have more appreciation of the trencher.
I go.  One pound of British beef, and then
   What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;”
That home-returning, I may ‘soothly say,’
“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”