Above the black saucepan, that dinner was near;
And I said, “If there is a good thing in this world,
’Tis a boiled leg of pork, which methinks is in here.”
Every table was spread, and I heard underground,
The landlady tapping a cask of old ale.
And here, in a snug little inn of its sort,
With a landlord that’s jolly, a waiter that’s cute,
A weed of Havannah, a glass of old port,
If a man were not happy with these, he’s a brute.
Every table, &c.