I think upon the days of yore;
Like TICKLER, on Ambrosian nights,
I have consumed them by the score.
And still, whenever you appeared,
My pride it was to use you well;
I let the juice play round your beard,
And always on the hollow shell.
I placed you in the fair lark-pie.
With steak and kidneys too, of course;
Your ancestors were glad to die,