Might certify that famed cook’s skill could draw from viands in his store,
Filled the hut. The pot was bubbling, Cochin China’s toil and troubling
Were at an end, and he was yielding grateful broth from every pore,
Yielding broth fit for a warden, that should our digger’s strength restore,
And make him a good feed once more.
’Twas no ardour scientific of immense results prolific,
Nor a questioning of his fortunes by the ancient heathen lore,
Still our much depressed hero, whose luck surely was at zero,
Was examining quite closely Cocky’s crop upon the floor,
Was inspecting it minutely on his knees upon the floor,