How soft those whiskered waiters tread,
Their dishes dexterously handing!
‘ Twould seem ( as some one aptly said )
As though a nobleman lay dead
Upon an upper landing,
In such tranquillity and quiet
Do members masticate their diet!
Yes, here is peace, that‘ perfect peace,’
With loved ones safely at a distance,
Which men demand who seek release
From cares that cause the brow to crease
And poison the existence;
Peace, comatose — nay, cataleptic —
Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic!
The special feature of the place
Is that it has no special feature;
Its tone is that of frigid grace
With which the Briton loves to face
Each human fellow-creature.
Here sire meets son, or brother brother,
And neither need address the other!
Within this dignified retreat,
From Government or Opposition,
The Whigs of all opinions meet,
Eyeing each other, as they eat,
With looks of dumb suspicion.
Here Unionist regards Home Ruler
With feelings daily growing cooler.
Through Brooks's battered ballot-box
His way to fame a man may well win,
Who sits where Sheridan and Fox
Discoursed of dice or fighting-cocks
With Wilberforce and Selwyn;
Where modern wits and legislators
Converse with no one but the waiters!