Thomas Bailey Aldrich

I BEG you come to-night and dine.

A welcome waits you, and sound wine—

The Roederer chilly to a charm,

As Juno’s breath the claret warm,

The sherry of an ancient brand.

No Persian pomp, you understand—

A soup, a fish, two meats, and then

A salad fit for aldermen

(When aldermen, alas the days!

Were really worth their mayonnaise);

A dish of grapes whose clusters won

Their bronze in Carolinian sun;

Next, cheese—for you the Neufchâtel,

A bit of Cheshire likes me well;

Café au lait or coffee black,

With Kirsch or Kümmel or Cognac

(The German Band in Irving Place

By this time purple in the face);

Cigars and pipes. These being through,

Friends shall drop in, a very few—

Shakespeare and Milton, and no more.

When these are guests I bolt the door,

With Not at Home to any one

Excepting Alfred Tennyson.