Of servants, whether best or worst,

      The Butler seems to rank the first;

      Whose sparkling aid calls up the Nine,—

      Such virtue dwells in rosy wine.

      There's none can draw a cork like you,

      You're such a perfect 'thorough screw.'

      Who else can keep within the tether

      Mirth and economy together?

      At home for ever to a shaving,

      In all the honest arts of saving.

      Since those who dine at the same table

      Are friends, why shouldn't you be able

      To make one glass, or two at most,

      Serve for both company and host?

      Thus saving both fatigue and breaking,

      And, most of all, the wine they're taking.

      Serve not one guest amidst the feast,

      Till he has call'd three times at least;

      Further his temp'rance you may fix

      By sundry nasty little tricks,

      More fit, because your own invention,

      For you to use than me to mention.

      On your behaviour stands confest

      The pain or ease of ev'ry guest;

      You can ensure a hearty greeting,

      Or make it like a Quakers' meeting.

      From what your Master seems to do,

      You and the footmen take your cue;

      At least your Lady'll teem with praise,

      You've got such 'shrewd, discerning ways.'

      Should any one desire small beer,

      The end of dinner somewhat near,

      Gather the droppings (exc'lent fun)

      Of all the glasses into one.

      This you may do and none perceive,

      "The eye don't see, the heart won't grieve:"

      Thus you may make a mighty chatter

      Of saving in the smallest matter.

      But when they chance to call for ale,

      More bright the joke more brisk the tale,

      Down to the vaults, and if not filling

      The largest tankard till o'erspilling,

      Then you're not fit to hold your station,

      Not fit to fill—your situation:

      The company just drink two glasses,

      And you the rest amongst the lasses.

      The same thing with respect to wine;

      It's only just the whilst it's fine

      It suits our masters: good, i'fegs!

      So half the bottle goes for dregs;

      Ha! ha! we're then, instead of napping,

      Like the woodpecker,—always 'tapping.'

      Of course, occasion'ly you tell o'er

      The true contents of all the cellar.

      Again of course, the choicest bottle

      Scarce greets at all your Master's throttle.

      The deuce a bit (if you've the tact)

      You care, if he suspects the fact;

      Then, to ensure his constant favour,

      Treat him, sometimes, for good behaviour!

      Wipe knives, rub tables, clean your