Monsieur the Chef is instructing a kitchen-maid how to com- pound some rascally French kickshaw or the other -- a pretty scoundrel truly! with what an air he wears that night -cap of his, and shrugs his lank shoulders, and chatters, and ogles, and grins; they are all the same, these mounseers; look at those other two fellows -- morbleu! one is putting his dirty fingers into the saucepan; there are frogs cooking in it, no doubt; and see, just over some other dish of abomination, another dirty rascal is taking snuff! Never mind, the sauce won't be hurt by a few ingredients, more or less. Three such fellows as these are not worth one English- man, that's clear. See, there is one in the very midst of them, the great burly fellow with the beef, he could beat all three in five minutes. We cannot be certain that such was the process going on in Mr Cruikshank's mind when he made the design; but some feelings of the sort were no doubt entertained by him.
The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner;
The poor who would roast
To the baker's must post,
And thus becomes a sinner.
The rich man has a cellar,
And a ready butler by him;
The poor must steer
For his pint of beer
Where the saint can't choose but spy him.
The rich man's painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality;
The poor can but share
A crack'd fiddle i)i the air.
Which offends all sound morality.
The rich man is invisible
In the crowd of his pay society;
But the poor man's delight
Is a sore in the sight,
And a stench in the nose of piety.
