Hints to Servants. Джонатан Свифт

matter whether fowl or coney.

      If miss'd, then lay it to the rats,

      Strange greyhounds or domestic cats:

      (Poor things! 'tis hard that you should scout 'em,)

      But harder still to do without 'em.

      Then talk of 'magpies' for blue moons,

      When 'maids' run short of forks and spoons:

      I must confess how I do glory,

      In that most true, most 'moving story.'

      If there's no paper for your use

      To light a fire or singe a goose,

      Swear by the poker, tongs, and shovel,

      You'll tear some from the 'last new Novel.'

      If forc'd to own that you're the thief,

      Say you'll "turn over a new leaf:"

      Nay, should you rob (no new proceeding)

      The very work your Master's reading,

      Say that 'there's more besides the Cook,'

      Should take a "leaf from Master's book."

      If you should serve a family

      So rich, they don't live crammily,

      Broils you may have—nay, constant broiling,

      Yet free from common roasting, boiling:

      But stews and hashes bring much bother,—

      Encourage neither one nor t'other;

      Good Cooks still hate all diddle-daddle,

      Constant, eternal fiddle-faddle.

      But snipes and larks, that come as presents

      (Instead of partridges and pheasants)

      Placed in the pan, (a sort of toasting,)

      Will cook themselves, whatever's roasting:

      'Plague on't!' you wish the paltry elves

      Would 'keep their presents to themselves.'

      And so for once I catch you tripping,—

      You long again for joints and dripping.

      Would I be called on of a sudden

      To make a plaguy 'sparra' pudden?'

      I say at once, then, downright "No!

      I'd see'em all at Jericho!"

      And if they grumble, then give warning,

      'As sure as eggs is eggs,' next morning;

      And beg they'd please, in lieu of more freaks,

      To "suit themselves as that day four weeks."

      Who cares for their 'contempshus looks,'

      Their "God sends meat, the devil cooks;"

      They're only better sort of 'varments,'

      I says, "good Masters makes good Sarvants."

      If you're allow'd the kitchen stuff,

      Be sure the meat's done quite enough;

      But if your Mistress 'claps her paw,'

      Then serve it up downright 'red raw.'

      If fault be found, though, 'aither way,'

      "It shan't be so another day;"

      And still, against each new desire,

      Keep up a brisk and roaring fire.

      Let red hot coals the dripping savour,

      To give the meat a 'foreign flavour;'

      And say, whatever falls upon it,

      "The more there's in't, the more there's on it."

      When 'all behind,' and time the winner,

      'Regarding sending up the dinner,'

      Alter the clock when you begin it,

      And you'll be ready to a minute.

      One secret now I'll not conceal,—

      Whene'er you roast a breast of veal,

      The sweetbread is the Butler's luncheon,

      Whoever may go short of munching.

      If it be 'asked for,' make excuses

      For what so many sweets produces;

      Yet, O beware, his faith to prove,

      Beware, beware of cupboard love!

      Sops in the pan but feed desire,

      Till "all the fat is in the fire:"

      In Freedom's cause both risk your peace

      And, Byron-like,—expire in Grease!