When the sirup’s on the flapjack and the coffee’s in the pot;
When the fly is in the butter—where he’d rather be than not;
When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;
When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken’s in the broth;
When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher’s on the tray,
And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn’t on the way;
When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese,
Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.
BREAD PUDDYNGE
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And his idea of what to eat
Was a good bag puddynge.
The bag puddynge he had in mind
Was thickly strewn with plums,
With alternating lumps of fat
As big as my two thumbs.
“My love,” quoth he to Guinevere,
“We have a joust to-day—
Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal,
And all the brave array.
“Put everything across to-night
In guise of goodly fare,
And cook us up a bag puddynge
That will y-curl our hair.”
“I’ll curl your hair,” said Guinevere,
“As tight as tight can be;
I’ll cook you up a bag puddynge
From my new recipee.”