“Pitch in and eat, my merry men!”
That night the King did say;
“But save a little room—a bag
Puddynge is on the way.
“Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword,
A famous feast ’twill be.
Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce,
From her own recipee.”
“Odslife!” cried Launce, “if there is aught
I love ’tis this same thing.”
And he and all the knights did fall
Upon that bag puddynge.
One taste, and every holy knight
Sat speechless for a space,
While disappointment and disgust
Were writ in every face.
“Odsbodikins!” Sir Tristram cried,
“In all my days, by Jing!
I ne’er did taste so flat a mess
As this here bag puddynge.”
“Odswhiskers, Arthur!” cried Sir Launce,
Whose license knew no bounds,
“I would to Godde I had this stuff
To poultice up my wounds.”
King Arthur spat his mouthful out,
And sent for Guinevere.
“What is this frightful mess?” he roared.
“Is this a joke, my dear?”
“Oh, ain’t it good?” asked Guinevere,
Her face a rosy red.
“I thought ’twould make an awful hit:
I made it out of bread!”
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And only once in all his reign
Was made a Bread Puddynge.