Harry. Is it? Then hereafter call me the poet of the breakfast table. My lay shall be seconded with a fresh egg.
Sally. Another? Land sakes! you think of nothing but eating.
Harry. Exactly, when I’m hungry. My hunger once appeased, I think of this good farm—the broad fields, mowing, haying, the well-fed cattle, and sometimes, when I am very hungry, I think of the time when I leaned over the fence, and gazed enchanted upon the pretty girl milking her cow—whose name was Sally.
Sally. Eh—the cow?
Harry. Now, Sally, don’t destroy the poetry of my language.
Sally. Don’t be ungrammatical, Harry; and do stop talking nonsense.
Harry. I will, for my breakfast is finished, and I can talk to you no longer. I’m off. (Sings.)
“For to reap and to sow,
To plough and to mow,