But come, now, I hear by the sound of the ringing That dinner is ready; and time none to spare To finish our eating in time for the singing At Niblo's; or at Burton's drop in for a stare. To 'kill time' the object, whatever the source is, And that is the reason we sit at the table And call for our dinner in slow-coming courses, To kill, while we eat, all the time we are able. Though little, I told you, that's worthy your taste You'll find on our table, pray don't think us mean—    Your welcome is ample—that's better than waste—    Oh! here comes the soup in a silver tureen—    'Tis mock turtle too—so good for digestion:    That kills me by inches, the wretched complaint Dyspepsia—to cure which, I take by suggestion Port-wine in the soup, when I feel slightly faint. 

  

  

       The Dinner Table Talk.     

    Now soup, if you like made of beef very nice, You'll find this the next thing to the height of perfection; And eaten with ketchup, or thickened with rice, Will suit you I know, if this is your selection. My own disposition to this one inclines, But dreadful dyspepsia destroys all the pleasure Of dinner, except it's well tinctured with wines Which plan I adopt as a health-giving measure. A table well ordered, well furnished, and neat, No wonder our nature for ever is tempting; And I'd like to know if Mahomet could beat Its pleasures—dyspepsia for ever exempting—    With all that he promised in paradise gained, With Houris attendant in place of the churls With which we are worried, tormented, and pained—    The colored men servants, or green Irish girls. 

  

  

       Mrs. Merdle doubts Paradise's Uneating Pleasure.     

    Though Houris are handsome, though lovely the place—    More lovely perhaps than our own country seat—    I never could see, in the light of free grace What pleasure they have there with nothing to eat. With nothing to wear, if the climate is suiting, We might get along I am sure pretty well; No washing and starching and crimping and fluting, No muslin and laces and trouble of dressing, they tell, E'er troubles the women, or bothers the men, Who soon grow accustomed, as people do here, To fashions prevailing, and things that they ken; To dresses fore-shortened where bosoms appear; To bonnets that show but a rose in the wearing; To dresses that sweep like 

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