HIS book is successful, he’s steeped in renown,

His lyric effusions have tickled the town;

Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace

The fountain of verse in the verse-maker’s face;

While, proud as Apollo, with peers tÊte-À-tÊte,

His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.

Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,

Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks,

Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card,

And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;

Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,

And soup À la reine, little better than broth.

While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,

Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,

Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,

To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.

Now soup À la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek,

And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.

While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,

Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,

Now squat city misses their albums expand,

And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”;

No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,

And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!)

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.