THE LYONS CUBS

I said to George, my eldest son,

‘ Now that your college days are done,

‘ And high opinions you have won

‘ For wisdom and discretion,

‘ The time has come, as I suspect,

‘ When you should ponder and reflect

‘ Upon your future, and select

‘ A calling or profession.’

He answered brightly,‘ Righto, pater!

‘ I'd like to be a British waiter!’

‘ Come, George,’ I said,‘ do n't be absurd!

‘ I asked what calling you preferred.

‘ The Bar ( although, I've always heard,

‘ The work is something frightful ),

‘ The Church, the Services, the Bench,

‘ Diplomacy — nay, do not blench,

‘ You know how good you are at French —

‘ Is each of them delightful;

‘ I'll come for your decision later.’

Said George,‘ I wish to be a waiter!

‘ Yes, at some cafe let me wait;

‘ For though I stroked my College eight,

‘ The year they won the Ladies’ Plate,

‘ How mean a triumph that is,

‘ Compared with his who daily bears

‘ Whole stacks of Ladies’ Plates downstairs,

‘ Or “bumps” the backs of diners’ chairs,

‘ At Evans's or Gatti's!

‘ A “first” in “Greats” I deem no greater

‘ Than every exploit of the waiter.

‘ When single-handed he controls

‘ Some half-a-dozen finger-bowls,

‘ Than any Fellow of All Souls

‘ More talent he evinces,

‘ And shows why those who feel the charm

‘ Of balancing without alarm

‘ Six soup-plates upon either arm,

‘ At Kettner's, Scott's, or Prince's,

‘ To Judge's wig or Bishop's gaiter

‘ Prefer the napkin of the waiter!’