N.B. To-day the fowl without the liver wing was the favourite, but the knowing ones were taken in; the uncarved one carried it hollow.
NOVEMBER 30
“Do those I love e’er think on me?”
How oft that painful doubt will start,
To blight the roseate smile of glee,
And cloud the brow, and sink the heart!
No more can I, estranged from home,
Their pleasures share, nor soothe their moans
To them I’m dead as were the foam
Now breaking o’er my whitening bones.