DEAR Simon! Prince of pastry-cooks, | |
| Oysters, and ham, and cold neat’s tongue, | |
| Pupil of Mitchill’s cookery-books, | |
| And bosom friend of old and young! | |
| Sure from some higher, brighter sphere | 5 |
| In showers of gravy thou wert hurled, | |
| To aid our routs and parties here, | |
| And grace the fashionable world! | |
| |
| Taught by thy art, we closely follow | |
| And ape the English lords and misses; | 10 |
| For Music, we’ve the Black Apollo, | |
| And Mrs. Poppleton for kisses. | |
| We borrow all the rest, you know, | |
| Our glass from Christie for the time, | |
| Plate from our friends to make a show, | 15 |
| And cash, to pay small bills from Prime. | |
| |
| What though old Squaretoes will not bless thee— | |
| He fears your power and dreads your bill; | |
| Mother and her dear girls caress thee, | |
| And pat thy cheek, and praise thee still. | 20 |
| Oh, Simon! how we envy thee, | |
| When belles that long have frowned on all, | |
| Greet thee with smiles, and bend the knee, | |
| To beg you’ll help them “give a ball!” | |
| |
| Though it is ungenteel to think, | 25 |
| For thought affects the nerves and brain! | |
| Yet oft we think of thee, and drink | |
| Thy health in Lynch’s best champagne. | |
| ’Tis pity that thy signal merit | |
| Should slumber in so low a station; | 30 |
| Act, Simon, like a lad of spirit, | |
| And thou, in time, mayst rule the nation! | |
| |
| Break up your Saturdays “at home,” | |
| Cut Guinea and your sable clan, | |
| Buy a new eye-glass and become | 35 |
| A dandy and a gentleman. | |
| You must speak French, and make a bow, | |
| Ten lessons are enough for that; | |
| And Leavenworth will teach you how | |
| To wear your corsets and cravat. | 40 |
| |
| Knock all your chambers into one, | |
| Hire fiddlers, glasses, Barons too, | |
| And then invite the whole haut-ton; | |
| Ask Hosack, he can tell you who. | |
| The great that are, and—wish to be, | 45 |
| Within your brilliant rooms will meet, | |
| And belles of high and low degree, | |
| From Broadway up to Cherry Street. | |
| |
| This will insure you free admission | |
| To all our routs, for years to come; | 50 |
| And when you die, a long procession | |
| Of dandies shall surround your tomb. | |
| We’ll raise an almond statue where | |
| In dust your honoured head reposes; | |
| Mothers shall lead their daughters there, | 55 |
| And bid them twine your bust with roses. | |
| |
