I think it had repaid my guilt
Had you flashed fire like Ashtaroth,
And scorched the clumsy wretch who spilt
That flood of mustard on your cloth.
Beef, pudding, cherry-tart, and cream,
What more could mortal man desire?
I munched them idly in a dream,
My head sang like a village choir.
I fumbled with the silver pot
From which that tawny torrent ran;