Shall sound the Cease-fire, may our glances meet
Over the Sally Lunn or crisp brown crumpet;
Never again (the prospect makes my soul,
Unnerved by going beefless once a week, ache)
Shall you and I absorb the jammy roll
Nor yet the toasted tea-cake.
Never for us shall any fancy bread—
The food of vernal Love, and very tasty—
On lip and cheek its subtle savour shed,
Blent with the lighter forms of Gallic pasty;