Classic Poem

In the Name of M.O.D. and the Author

Scarron, as Goldsmith tells the tale,
When his own cheer was wont to fail,
Wou'd send a card to ev'ry friend,
At four his Levee to attend.
Each guest, as suited his own taste,
Wou'd bring a dish to crown the feast.
The garnish far excell'd the meat,
The sauce from fancy's sweet retreat;
Some brought the song and merry glee,
And some the social repartee;
Good-humour took the foremost place;
And stingless jest pronounc'd the grace.
Thus from an het'rogeneous crew,
The banquet to perfection grew.

Tho' poor at present is our store,
One single dish, we give no more:
And one, if we but judge aright,
When mirth and harmony unite,
Is full as good as if the board
Was serv'd from rich Lucuilus' hoard.
If you will come and grace the top,
Tho' it were but a mutton chop;
Our humble board with mirth you'll crown,
And Scarron's feast will be run down;
The song, the joke, and repartee,
Combin'd with grace, will flow from thee.
Then come, and we will both be happy,
Whilst nectar like we'll quaff our nappy.