NEW BREAD FOR OLD.
["New Bread Again"—"Loaves of Any Shape."—Headlines from a Daily Paper.]
As I walked forth in Baker Street
As sober as a Quaker,
Whom did I have the luck to meet?
I met a jolly Baker.
His voice was gay, his eye was bright,
His step was light and airy,
His face and arms were powdered white—
I think he was a fairy;
He danced beneath the April moon,
And as he danced he trolled
Wild snatches of an ancient rune,
Yet all the burden of his tune
Was "New—Bread—for Old!"
Quoth I: "Whence got you, lad, a heart
So glad that you must show it?"
Quoth he: "The Baker hath his art
No less, Sir, than the Poet;
I tell ye, I'm so blithe to-night
I'd paint the old Moon's orb red!
Oh, think ye that I took delight
For years in baking war-bread?
One shape, one colour and one size,
By Government controlled?
But now all this to limbo flies;
What wonder that to-night I cries
'New—Bread—for Old?'
"Good Sir, the Baker hath a soul
And loves to make bread pleasant—
The Twist, the long Vienna Roll,
The Horseshoe and the Crescent,
The Milk, the Tin, the lovely loaf
Where currants one discovers,
The Wholemeal for the country oaf,
The Knot for all true lovers.
So, till upon the glowing East
The sun in red and gold
Comes forth to bake the daily feast,
I'll cry with heart as light as yeast,
'New—Bread—for Old!'"