TO MY BEEF TEA.
(By Our Dyspeptic Poet.)
When the doctor's stern decree
Rings the knell of libertee,
And dismisses from my sight
All the dishes that delight;
When my temperature is high—
When to pastry and to pie
Duty bids me say farewell,
Then I hail thy fragrant smell!
When the doctor shakes his head,
Banning wine or white or red,
And at all my well-loved joints
Disapproving finger points;
When my poultry too he stops,
Then, reduced to taking "slops,"
I, for solace and relief,
Fly to thee, O Tea of Beef!
But—if simple truth I tell—
I can brook thee none too well;
Thy delights, O Bovine Tea,
Have no special charm for me!
Though thou comest piping hot,
Oh, believe I love thee not!
Weary of thy gentle reign—
Give me oysters and champagne!