To famine, chops are more than fame.
Who hiss at him, him but assures
That they are geese, but wanting wings—
Your coat is his whose life is yours,
And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.
Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,
And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,
Come taste, ye lovers of the good—
Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.
Anonymous.