I know a home of antique ease
Within the smoky city’s pale,
A spot wherein the spirit sees
Old London through a thinner veil.
The modern world, so stiff and stale,
You leave behind you, when you please,
For long clay pipes and great old ale
And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Beneath this board, Burke’s, Goldsmith’s knees
Were often thrust—so runs the tale—
’Twas here the Doctor took his ease,
And wielded speech that, like a flail,
Thresh’d out the golden truth: All hail
Great souls! that met on nights like these,
For talk and laughter, pipes and ale,
And supper in the “Cheshire Cheese.”
By kindly sense, and old decrees
Of England’s use you set your sail—
We press to never-furrow’d seas,
For vision-worlds we breast the gale;
And still we seek, and still we fail,
For still the “glorious phantom” flees4 —
Ah, well! no phantoms are the ale
And suppers of the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Envoi
If doubts or debts thy soul assail,
If Fashion’s forms its current freeze,
Try a long pipe, a glass of ale,
And supper at the “Cheshire Cheese.”
[3] Meeting-place of The Rhymers’ Club, 1892, 3.
[4]... “Graves from which a glorious phantom may
Burst to illumine our tempestuous day.”"—Shelley.