shrill clarion blow,—
            Though he Sleep's herald is we know.

            Scarce would you deem that calm profound,
            Unbroken by the ghost of sound,

            Had, like a sudden curtain, dropt
            Upon a revel, instant stopt,—

           That laugh and shout and merry rout
           And hunting song had all died out,

                       Stricken to silence at a touch—

                    A single touch! It was not much!

            I 'll tell you how it came about.

                What bevies of pages
            Of various ages
            Princess Prettipet's christening banquet engages!

            They all look as deeply important as sages.

                What hundreds of cooks!

                To judge by their looks,

      They had written the very profoundest of books.

  (Of course, books like those by Hobbes, Bacon, or Hooker I
  Mean—not mere Kitchener's Essays on Cookery.)

                       As to the cartes,

      From the soups to the tarts,

  'T would need to detail them a man of some parts;
  While to eat of each item—

  To taste—just to bite 'em,

  The veracious voracious will own would affright 'em.

                If you want to find out
                The amount, or about,

  Of the salmon, beef, partridges, lobsters, sourcrout,

  Maccaroni, potatoes, cream, cutlets, ice, trout,

  Lamb, blanc-mange, kippered herring, duck, brocoli sprout,
  Sheep's trotters, real turtle, tripe, truffles, swine's snout,

  Sole au gratin, snails, birds' nests, Dutch cheese, whiting-pout,
  Jelly, plovers' eggs, bitters, liqueurs, ale, wine, stout,

  Peas, cheese, fricassées, and ragoût—(say ragout
                  For the sake of the rhyme)—

  And have plenty of time,

      And a knowledge of figures (which I call a crime),
      Because it's a feat that would puzzle beginners—
      Make out and declare
      The cube of the square,

  Of twice twenty thousand of Lord Mayor's grand dinners.

  #####

           The invited guests begin to arrive:

          With nobles and courtiers the scene is alive.

  They hustle,

                       And bustle,

  In rich dresses rustle;

  The squeeze for good places is almost a tussle;

  Precedence depends not on birth, but on muscle.

                But they're none of them able
                To reach the high table,

  For the grave Major-Domo, perceiving the Babel,

                A sufficient space clears
                With the King's Musqueteers,

      Because he well knows it will cost him his ears
  If—when the time comes for the soups and the meats—
  The twelve fairy godmothers cannot find seats.

  At last there's a bray
  Of trumpets, to say
  That His Majesty's Majesty's coming this way,

  With his Ministers all in their gorgeous array,

  And the Lords of his Council, a noble display,

  And the Queen, who's as beauteous as blossoms in May,
  With her Ladies in Waiting so smiling and gay,

  With a great many more
  I might briefly run o'er
  If at pageants like this I were only au fait.
             The glittering procession
  Makes stately progression
  To the seats