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Think yourself sure of nothing till you’ve got it:

This is the lesson of the day.

In metaphoric language I might say,

Count not your bird before you’ve shot it.

Quoth Proverb, “’Twixt the cup and lip

There’s many a slip.”

Not every guest invited sits at table,

So says my fable.

A man once gave a dinner to his friend;

His friend!—his patron I should rather think

By all the loads of meat and drink,

And fruits and gellies without end,

Sent home the morning of the feast.

Jowler, his dog, a social beast,

Soon as he smelt the matter out, away

Scampers to old acquaintance Tray,

And, with expressions kind and hearty,

Invites him to the party.

Tray wanted little pressing to a dinner;

He was, in truth, a gormandizing sinner.

He lick’d his chops, and wagg’d his tail,

“Dear friend!” he cried, “I will not fail

But what’s your hour?”

“We dine at four;

But if you come an hour too soon,

You’ll find there’s something to be done.”

His friend withdrawn, Tray, full of glee,

As blithe as blithe could be,

Skipp’d, danced, and play’d full many an antic

Like one half frantic,

Then sober in the sun lay winking,

But could not sleep for thinking.

He thought o’er every dainty dish,

Fried, boil’d and roast,

Flesh, fowl, and fish,

With tripes and toast,

Fit for a dog to eat;

And in his fancy made a treat,

Might grace a bill of fare

For my lord-mayor.

At length, just on the stroke of three,

Forth sallied he;

And through a well-known hole

He slyly stole

Pop on the scene of action.

Here he beheld, with wondrous satisfaction

All hands employ’d in drawing, stuffing,

Skewering, spitting, and basting;

The red-faced cook sweating and puffing,

Chopping, mixing, and tasting.

Tray skulk’d about, now here, now there

Peep’d into this, and smelt at that,

And lick’d the gravy, and the fat,

And cried, “O rare! how I shall fare!”

But Fortune, spiteful as Old Nick,

Resolved to play our dog a trick;

She made the cook

Just cast a look

Where Tray, beneath the dresser lying,

His promised bliss was eying.

A cook while cooking is a sort of fury,

A maxim worth remem’bring, I assure ye.

Tray found it true,

And so may you,

If e’er you choose to try.

“How now!” quoth she, “what’s this I spy?

A nasty cur! who let him in?

Would he were hang’d with all his kin!

A pretty kitchen-guest, indeed!

But I shall pack him off with speed.”

So saying, on poor Tray she flew,

And dragg’d the culprit forth to view;

Then, to his terror and amazement,

Whirl’d him like lightning through the casement.

EVENING III.