Classic Poem

Thus to his mate Sir Richard spoke —
" The House is up; from London smoke
All fly; the Park grows thinner;
The friends who fed us, will condemn
Our backward board; we must feed them:
My dear, let's give a dinner. "

" Agreed! " his lady cries; " and first
Put down Sir George and Lady Hurst. "
" Done! now I name — the Gatties! "
" My dear, they're rather stupid, " — " Stuff!
We dine with them, and that's enough:
Besides, I like their patties. "

" Who next? " — " Sir James and Lady Dunn. "
" O no. " — " Why not? " — " They'll bring their son,
That regular tormentor;
A couple, with one child, are sure
To bring three fools outside their door,
Whene'er abroad they venture. "

" Who next? " — " John Yates. " — " What! M. P. Yates;
Who, o'er the bottle, stale debates
Drags forth ten times a minute? "
" He's like the rest: whoever fails ,
Out of St. Stephen's school tells tales
He'd quake to utter in it. "

" Well, have him if you will. " — " The Grants. "
" My dear, remember, at your aunt's
I view'd them with abhorrence. "
" Why so? " — " Why, since they've come from Lisle,
(Which they call Leel ) they bore our isle
With Brussels, Tours, and Florence.

" Where could you meet them? " — " At the Nore. "
" Who next? " — " The Lanes. " — " We want no more —
Lieutenant General Dizzy. "
" He's deaf. " — " But then he'll bring Tom White. "
" True! ask them both: the boy's a bite;
We'll place him next to Lizzy. "

'Tis seven — the Hunts, the Dunns, Jack Yates,
The Grants assemble: dinner waits;
In march the Lanes, the Gatties.
Objections, taunts, rebukes are fled,
Hate, scorn, and ridicule lie dead
As so many Donatties.

Yates carves the turbot, Lane the lamb,
Sir George the fowls, Sir James the ham,
Dunn with the beef is busy;
His helpmate pats her darling boy,
And, to complete a mother's joy,
Tom White sits next to Lizzy.

All trot their hobbies round the room;
They talk of routs, retrenchments, Hume,
The bard who won't lie fallow,
The Turks, the statue in the Park,
Which both the Grants, at once, remark
Jump'd down from Mount Cavallo.

They talk of dances, operas, dress,
They nod, they smile, they acquiesce;
None pout; all seem delighted:
Heavens! can this be the self-same set,
So courteously received when met;
So taunted when invited?

So have I seen, at Drury Lane,
A play rehearsed: the Thespian train
In arms; the bard astounded;
Scenes cut; parts shifted; songs displaced;
Jokes mangled; characters effaced;
" Confusion worse confounded. "

But, on the night, with seeming hearts,
The warring tribe their several parts
Enact with due decorum.
Such is the gulf that intervenes
'Twixt those who get behind the scenes,
And those who sit before 'em!