BOOKWORM BALLADS

MY Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.

I was not there — I say it to my very great regret.

For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw

Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.

“’ Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.

They go down easy; then for soup”— it really made me laugh —

“The poems of old Johnny Gay”— his words were rather rough —

“They’ ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’ s thin and sloppy stuff.

“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as an entrée,

I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;

The roast will be Charles Kingsley — there’ s a deal of beef in him.

For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.

“For game I’ ll have Boccaccio — he’ s quite the proper one;

He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone;

And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he,

With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.

“And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you’ ll find right there

Some things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert;

And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyám be brought,

The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.

“For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes of Punch —

They’ re good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;

And through it all we’ ll quaff the wines that flow forever clear

From Avon’ s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”