I've heard about a pleasant Land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run crying out,
“Come eat me, if you please."
My appetite is rather keen,

But how shall I get there?

66

Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

A TABLE OF ERRATA.

(Hostess loquitur.)

WELL! thanks be to Heaven, The summons is given;

It's only gone seven

And should have been six ;
There's fine overdoing
In roasting and stewing,
And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!

How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly;
That John is so silly

And never will learn
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,
I wish they had told one
The lamp wouldn't burn.

Now then for some blunder,
For nerves to sink under:
I never shall wonder

Whatever goes ill.

That fish is a riddle!

It's broke in the middle.

A Turbot! a fiddle!

It's only a Brill!

It's quite over-boil'd too,
The butter is oil'd too,
The soup is all spoil'd too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby

That Cook shall not stop!

As sure as the morning,
She gets a month's warning,
My orders for scorning-
There's nothing to eat!

I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,
I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter

That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!

Not wanted at present,

I'm born to be vext!

The pudding brought on too And aiming at ton too!

And where is that John too,

The plague that he is? He's off on some ramble: And there is Miss Campbell, Enjoying the scramble, Detestable Quiz!

The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,
An Ogre would shy it
So ruddy as that!
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it's put on,
Converts to a button

Each drop of the fat.

The beef without mustard!
My fate's to be fluster'd,

And there comes the custard

To eat with the hare! Such flesh, fowl, and fishing, Such waiting and dishing, I cannot help wishing

A woman might swear!

Oh dear! did I ever-
But no, I did never-
Well, come, that is clever,

To send up the brawn!

That cook, I could scold her, Gets worse as she's older;

I wonder who told her

That woodcocks are drawn!

It's really audacious !
I cannot look gracious,
Lord help the voracious

That came for a cram!
There's Alderman Fuller
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the colour,

Were boil'd with the ham!

Well, where is the curry?

I'm all in a flurry.

No, cook 's in no hurry—

A stoppage again!

And John makes it wider,

A pretty provider!

By bringing up cider

Instead of champagne !

My troubles come faster!
There's my lord and master
Detects each disaster,

And hardly can sit :
He cannot help seeing,
All things disagreeing;
If he begins d-ing

I'm off in a fit!