Course.
Come, John, Jane, and Susan, the soup take away, And bring in the turbot, the sheep's head and bass; And have you got lobster and salad to-day? And see that the celery's all right in the glass. Now fish—Colonel Dinewell, which fish will you try? And how shall I dress it to suit your nice taste? For sauce to the fish is as love to the sigh, Imperfect, it's worthless, and both prove a waste.
Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Hygiene and Fish Sauce.
But this is concocted by rules so complete; Though piquant, is healthy and easy digested; And if you will note it as slowly we eat, The contents I'll give for our friends interested. Imprimus: in fish stock, an onion we stew, And anchovy essence two spoonfuls we add; With butter, horse-radish, and lemons a few; Mushrooms, too, in ketchup is not very bad; And pickle of walnuts with onions chopped fine, To which there is added some old sherry wine. My doctor, so queer, when I suffer distress, Inquires what I've latterly foolishly eaten, And swears that to swallow this 'horrible mess,' Would entitle a dog like a dog to be beaten. But la! such a doctor knows nothing of women's complaints, And talks Latin nonsense about 'regular diet;' And thinks that us mortals—should live more like saints, On moonshine and nonsense of a heavenly quiet. He says that a woman of my plaint complaining, If she was a woman at all half discreet, Would shudder to think every day she is maiming Her stomach with trash, and such stuff as we eat!
Mrs. Merdle Describeth her Doctor.
But he's an old fogy, you may know by this sign— He don't smoke tobacco, drink lager or wine; And swears that rich gravy, roast pork or chop, Would kill a big ostrich, if stuffed in his crop. He told me one day 'bout the pain in my feet, 'I see what 't is ails you—you've nothing to eat!' Provoking, absurd, foolish hint that my health Was injured by eating what station and wealth And fashion give right for my sex to enjoy In spite of the doctors we choose to employ.
Mrs. Merdle Discourseth again on Dinner.
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