Thursday, November 25, 2004


But hark - a sound is stealing on my ear,
A soft and silvery sound - I know it well:
Its tinkling tells me that a time is near
Precious to me: it is the Dinner Bell.
O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,
Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell.
Seared is, of course, my heart - yet unsubdued
Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen,
But on one statement I may safely venture:
That few of our most highly gifted men
Have more appreciation of their trencher.
I go. One pound of British beef, and then,
What Mr. Swiveller called “a modest quencher”;
That, home-returning, I may “soothly say”:
“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined today.”

— C. S. Calverley

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