  squiggle-line Of servants, whether best or worst, The Butler seems to rank the first; Whose sparkling aid calls up the Nine,— Such virtue dwells in rosy wine. There's none can draw a cork like you, You're such a perfect 'thorough screw.' Who else can keep within the tether Mirth and economy together? At home for ever to a shaving, In all the honest arts of saving. Since those who dine at the same table Are friends, why shouldn't you be able To make one glass, or two at most, Serve for both company and host? Thus saving both fatigue and breaking, Serve not one guest amidst the feast, Till he has call'd three times at least; Further his temp'rance you may fix By sundry nasty little tricks, More fit, because your own invention, For you to use than me to mention. On your behaviour stands confest The pain or ease of ev'ry guest; You can ensure a hearty greeting, Or make it like a Quakers' meeting. From what your Master seems to do, You and the footmen take your cue; At least your Lady'll teem with praise, You've got such 'shrewd, discerning ways.' Should any one desire small beer, The end of dinner somewhat near, Gather the droppings (exc'lent fun) Of all the glasses into one. This you may do and none perceive, "The eye don't see, the heart won't grieve:" Thus you may make a mighty chatter But when they chance to call for ale, More bright the joke more brisk the tale, Down to the vaults, and if not filling The largest tankard till o'erspilling, Then you're not fit to hold your station, Not fit to fill—your situation: The company just drink two glasses, And you the rest amongst the lasses. The same thing with respect to wine; It's only just the whilst it's fine It suits our masters: good, i'fegs! So half the bottle goes for dregs; Ha! ha! we're then, instead of napping, Like the woodpecker,—always 'tapping.' Of course, occasion'ly you tell o'er The true contents of all the cellar. Again of course, the choicest bottle Scarce greets at all your Master's throttle. The deuce a bit (if you've the tact) You care, if he suspects the fact; Then, to ensure his constant favour, Wipe knives, rub tables, clean your plate,— What can be more appropriate? With table-cloths: 'tis bold, and dashing, But saves in dusters and in washing. In cleaning plate some talk of 'tricks,' Leaving the whiting in the nicks; The same with things in brass and copper: But I contend it's right and proper; Shows that you never kept aloof on't, But did the thing—and left a proof on't! I know no writer yet that handles The saving article of candles; But whilst convinc'd how much depends On ev'ry mortal's private 'ends' The subject, I'll not wholly doff it, It yields us all such glaring profit. Nor light them soon nor burn them low, And part upon the Cook bestow; No wretch alive would be that despot, To go to rob the woman's grease-pot! Though some may say you rob their pockets, A plague on all such meanness! scout it, And never vex your sconce about it. The noblest task in all your line, Is bottling off a Pipe of Wine; Not that you drink wine from the vat, You know a 'trick worth two of that,' But that it makes you (yet no stealer) A reputable private dealer. Choosing small bottles,—no large lumber, Your Master gets his proper number; Whilst, mod'rate in your views of pelf, You get six dozen for yourself,— Nay, were your Master quite a miser, Pray 'who's to be a bit the wiser?' Make from the cask your brethren cosey, Of course not drunk, yet vastly dozy: If fault be found you drain his wealth, 'Twas all with 'drinking Master's health.' Put 'em to bed to sleep it off, Say they've a cold—a shocking cough; 'Tis ten to one your Mistress orders At which, before, you've often laugh'd,— A more and more composing draught! Follow all guests towards the door, If they have slept a night or more; 'Tis ten to one you've half-a-crown,— Else 'show 'em up,' instead of down. If they rebel and still resist, Get all the servants to assist; Whilst other plans you yet may try, As I shall show you by and by. Good Butlers always break their corkscrew, So that it won't the lignum work through, Or do the job for which intended, Yet ne'er have time to get it mended: The jovial service never balk, Perform it with a silver fork! Now for the Gent who often dines, And eats your meat and drinks your wines, Yet gives no vails,—torment him thence 'No end of ways' for the offence. He calls, but you seem not to hear; And, to prolong the pleasing strife, A spoon when he desires a knife. At last he'll do what fits his station,— Or never more get invitation. Whoe'er comes in, whoe'er goes out, |
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