The strong beef-tea to its place inside,
When round and round you stir the spoon,
Or whistle thereon to cool it soon.
Because one knoweth, or ought to know,
That things get cool whereon you blow.
I never have drunk the dull souchong,
But I for my loved beef-tea did long,
And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,
Like a bird: as a child on that I messed—
And a mother it was and is to me,