Chapter Fifteen.
The Monarch of the Mould.
Sing, poet divine
Of your sparkling wine
Of Catawba, the luscious nectar;
While my humbler lays
Shall rise in praise
Of a king on whose fame I’ll hector.
But your lips don’t shoot,
For my king’s but fruit,
And your brows don’t frown with scorning;
For if to an end
Came my noble friend,
The nation would go into mourning.
’Tis that fruit of earth
That the West gave birth,
Introduced to our good Queen Bessy;
For its glorious savour
Has a sweeter flavour
Than an epicure’s entrée messy.
Potato, potato,
My heart’s elate, oh!
When you smile on my table brightly;
With an epidermis
That, so far from firm is
That it cracks when I grasp you tightly.
For a roast, bake, boil,
Stew or fry in oil,
No fruit can be called thy equal;
For carrot or turnip
Might him or her nip,
And cause an unpleasant sequel.
But thou, free from guile,
Indigestion - bile—
Brought home to thy charge were never;
For thy soft white meal
Is the dinner leal
Of Great Britain’s sons for ever.
To say the least,
For a Christmas feast,
’Twould be quite an act of folly,
And far less shirky
To leave goose or turkey,
Than a bowl of potatoes jolly.
Why, the old king’s friend
Sir Loin to attend,
Would surely ne’er brown if he knew it;
And the very ale
Turn beadless - pale,
While the beef turn’d cold in its suet.
The firmest friend
Mother earth could send
To her children when pots were minus;
Of a pan not the ghost,
But they still could roast
The old king whereon still we dine us.
By disease tried sore—
May it come no more!
For what should we do without him?
For Jamaica yam
Is a sorry flam,
And an artichoke - There, pray scout him!
Or who’d think nice
Soppy plain-boil’d rice,
Or parsnips or chestnuts toasted?
Earth has no fruit
As a substitute
For the ’tater plain-boil’d or roasted.
So waxy and prime
In the summer-time,
When new, with your lamb and gravy,
And your young sweet peas,
Devour’d with ease—
Of that you may make “affidavy.”
Or in autumn glowing
To crown the sowing,
I love to gaze on the furrows
And ridges tumid
Where moistly humid
The jolly old nubbly burrows.
O vegetable!
Long as we’re able
Our gardens shall smile with your flower;
As in long straight rows
This old friend grows
So humbly where others tower.
A cabbage to cut
Is all right, but
Where is its strength and stamina?
Though right with ham on
Your table, or gammon,
At best ’tis a watery gammoner,
You may go if you list,
Where you like ’tis miss’d
Before any entrée or other
Grand preparation
Of a French cook’s nation,
And naught can the great want smother.
Feast on, grandee!
From your board I’ll flee
To my honest old friend in his jacket;
For ’twill sit but light,
Though you may feel tight
If you too indiscreetly attack it.
And, glorious thought!
It can be bought—
This gem of whose wealth I’ve boasted—
For a bronze to be got,
In our streets “all hot,”
Half cooked by steam and half roasted.
Who wouldn’t be poor
(Not I, I’m sure),
To enjoy such a feast for a copper?
Split open - butter’d—
Oh, joy ne’er utter’d!
And pepper’d - and - “what a whopper?”
Just look at the steam,
At the can’s bright gleam,
And look at the vendor cheery;
And hark to his cry,
Now low, now high,
Speaking feasts for the traveller weary.
Go pick yourself,
And spend your pelf,
Three pound for twopence - they ask it—
With eyes full winking;
And while you’re thinking,
The scale’s tipp’d into your basket.
And you who’d wive,
Pray, just look alive,
And before you declare each feeling,
Watch your little mouse
On her way through the house,
And catch her potato peeling.
You know of the cheese,
And Pimlico’s ease,
When he pick’d out a wife by the paring;
But a better plan
For an every-day man—
Though an innovation most daring—
Is to watch the play
Of the knife, and the way
That the coat of potato’s falling;
Just look out for waste,
And beware of haste,
For thrift’s not the meanest calling.
Kidney, regent, fluke,
Fit for earl or duke,
Or a banquet for Queen Victoria;
Own’d I but lyre,
I’d never tire,
Of singing to thy praise a “Gloria.”
May you mealy wax,
Never tried by tax,
Ever free from Aphis vastator.
Of fruits the king,
Its praise we’ll sing,
Potent, pot-boy, “potater!”
Chapter Sixteen.
Spun Yarn.
Uncle Joe came and spent Christmas with us last year; a fine, dry, mahogany-visaged old man-o’-war’s-man as ever hitched up his trousers, and called it, “hauling in slack.”