BALLADE OF THE “CHESHIRE CHEESE” IN FLEET STREET

I know a home of antique ease

Within the smoky city's pale,

A spot wherein the spirit sees

Old London through a thinner veil.

The modern world, so stiff and stale,

You leave behind you, when you please,

For long clay pipes and great old ale

And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”

Beneath this board, Burke's, Goldsmith's knees

Were often thrust — so runs the tale —

‘ Twas here the Doctor took his ease,

And wielded speech that, like a flail,

Thresh'd out the golden truth: All hail

Great souls! that met on nights like these,

For talk and laughter, pipes and ale,

And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”

By kindly sense, and old decrees

Of England's use you set your sail —

We press to never-furrow'd seas,

For vision-worlds we breast the gale;

And still we seek, and still we fail,

For still the “glorious phantom” flees—

Ah, well! no phantoms are the ale

And suppers of the “Cheshire Cheese.”

If doubts or debts thy soul assail,

If Fashion's forms its current freeze,

Try a long pipe, a glass of ale,

And supper at the “Cheshire Cheese.”