Places Where Mortals Dine.

The case, too, was urgent, for there stood a sinner,

Whose fate hung on chance — a chance for his dinner;

A chance for all mortals, with truth I assert,

Who eat where his chance was, to counteract fate,

“To eat during life each a peck of pure dirt”

By eating at once the whole peck from one plate.

For true when I think of the places we eat at,

Or rather the places by hunger when driven

We rush in and swallow our bread and our meat at,

A bushel good measure in life will be given

To those who are living a “boarding-house life,”

Or those who are driven by fortune to journey,

And eat when we must with so dirty a knife,

I wish't could be done by the power of attorney;

Or where you must eat in a place called “saloon;”

Or “coffee-house” synonym of whisky and rum;

( I wish all the breed were sent off to the moon,

And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;)

Or where “Restauration” hangs out for sign,

At bar-room or cellar or dirty back room,

Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine,

And table cloths look as though washed with a broom;

Where knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves,

And plates needing polish, with coat tails are cleaned;

Where priests dine with harlots, and judges with thieves,

And mayors with villains his worship has screened.