ROE, BLOATER'S-ROE.

Faintly it wakes at the even chime,
The appetite long past its prime.
The supper-room at the Club looks dim.
What shall I "peck" for an epicure's whim?
Roe, Bloater's Roe! That's the brief repast
To tickle the palate, to break the fast!

They may prate of the pleasures of "early purl,"
Of the frizzled rasher's seductive curl,
But, when I fear I can munch no more,
When the thought of banquets becomes a bore,
Roe, Bloater's Roe, upon toast they cast,
And nausea's fled, and repletion's past!

Yes Bloater's Roe--upon toast. Ah, boon!
That stayeth satiety, late or soon.
Best of _bonnes bouches_, that all seasons fits!
The tenderest tickler of all tit-bits!
Roe, Bloater's Roe! O _chef_, grill fast,
And prepare my palate its pet repast!

* * * * *

ONE FORM OF A "SHELLEY MEMORIAL."--Awful indigestion the morning after
a Lobster Supper.

* * * * *