Lo, from within, a hush! the host Briefly expressed the evening’s toast; And lo, before the lips were dry, The Deacon rising to reply! “Here in this house which once I built, Papered and painted, carved and gilt, And out of which, to my content, I netted seventy-five percent; Here at this board of jolly neighbours, I reap the credit of my labours. These were the days—I will say more— These were the grand old days of yore! The builder laboured day and night; He watched that every brick was right; The decent men their utmost did; And the house rose—a pyramid! These were the days, our provost knows, When forty streets and crescents rose, The fruits of my creative noddle, All more or less upon a model, Neat and commodious, cheap and dry, A perfect pleasure to the eye! I found this quite a country quarter; I leave it solid lath and mortar. In all, I was the single actor— And am this city’s benefactor! Since then, alas! both thing and name, Shoddy across the ocean came— Shoddy that can the eye bewilder And makes me blush to meet a builder! Had this good house, in frame or fixture, Been tempered by the least admixture Of that discreditable shoddy, Should we today compound our toddy, Or gaily marry song and laughter Below its sempiternal rafter? Not so!” the Deacon cried.
The mansion Had marked his fatuous expansion. The years were full, the house was fated, The rotten structure crepitated! A moment, and the silent guests Sat pallid as their dinner vests.
A moment more, and root and branch, That mansion fell in avalanche, Story on story, floor on floor, Roof, wall and window, joist and door, Dead weight of damnable disaster, A cataclysm of lath and plaster.
Siloam did not choose a sinner— All were not builders at the dinner.