May genial gin no more delight _their_ throttles--
_Their_ casks grow leaky, bottomless _their_ bottles;
May smugglers _run_, and they ne'er make a seizure;
May _they_--I'll curse them further at my leisure.
But for our club,
"Ay, there's the rub."
"We mourn it dead in its father's halls:"[5]--
The sporting prints are cut down from the walls;
No stuffing there,
Not even in a chair;
The spirits are all _ex_(or)_cised_,
The coffee-cups capsized,
The coffee _fine_-d, the snuff all taken,
The mild Havannahs are by lights forsaken:
The utter ruin of the club's achieven--
Our very chess-boards are ex-_chequered_ even.
"Where is our club?" X--sighs,[6] and with a stare
Like to another echo, answers "Where?"
[1] "Ye jocal nine," a happy modification of "Ye vocal nine."
The nine here so classically invocated are manifestly nine
of the members of the late club, consisting of, 1. Mr. D--s
J--d. 2. The subject of the engraving, treasurer and
store-keeper.
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