B_ut a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy_,
I_ prithee get ready at three_:
H_ave it smoking, and tender, and juicy_,
A_nd what better meat can there be?_
A_nd when it has feasted the master_,
'T_will amply suffice for the maid_;
M_eanwhile I will smoke my canaster_,
A_nd tipple my ale in the shade_.
In similar strain of exquisite humor are the adaptations of the
Whichers, American examples of spirit and skill not second to that of
Thackeray:
MY SABINE FARM
LAUDABUNT ALII
S_ome people talk about "Noo Yo'k"_;
O_f Cleveland many ne'er have done_;
T_hey sing galore of Baltimore_,
C_hicago, Pittsburgh, Washington_.
O_thers unasked their wit have tasked_
T_o sound unending praise of Boston_--
O_f bean-vines found for miles around_
A_nd crooked streets that I get lost on_.
G_ive me no jar of truck or car_,
N_o city smoke and noise of mills_;
R_ather the slow Connecticut's flow_
A_nd sunny orchards on the hills_.
T_here like the haze of summer days_
B_efore the wind flee care and sorrow_.
I_n sure content each day is spent_,
U_nheeding what may come to-morrow_.
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