 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
[Go on, my friend, speak freely, pray]
Go on, my friend, speak freely, pray;
Don't stop till you have said your say;
But, after you are tired to death,
And pause to take a little breath,
I'll name a dish I think is one
To which no justice can be done!
Don't stop till you have said your say;
But, after you are tired to death,
And pause to take a little breath,
I'll name a dish I think is one
To which no justice can be done!
It is n't pastry, old and rich,
Nor onions, garlic, chives, and sich;
Not cheese that moves with lively pace,
It is n't even Sweitzer Kase:
It is n't ham, that 's old and strong,
Nor sausage kept a month too long;
It is n't beefsteak, fried in lard,
Nor boiled potatoes when they 're hard
(All food unfit for Goth or Celt);
It is n't fit even when they 're smelt;
It ain't what Chinamen call nice,
Although they dote on rats and mice;
For, speaking honestly and truly,
I would n't give it to a Coolie!
I would n't vally even a pup,
If he could stoop to eat it up;
Nor give my enemy a bit,
Although he sot and cried for it.
Recall all pizen food and slop
At stations where the rail-cars stop;
It 's more than each and all of these,
By just about sixteen degrees.
It has no nutriment, it 's trash!
It 's meaner than the meanest hash,
And sourer twenty thousand times,
Than lemons, vinegar, and limes:
It 's what I hate the man who eats;
It 's poor, cold, cussed, pickled beets!”
Nor onions, garlic, chives, and sich;
Not cheese that moves with lively pace,
It is n't even Sweitzer Kase:
It is n't ham, that 's old and strong,
Nor sausage kept a month too long;
It is n't beefsteak, fried in lard,
Nor boiled potatoes when they 're hard
(All food unfit for Goth or Celt);
It is n't fit even when they 're smelt;
It ain't what Chinamen call nice,
Although they dote on rats and mice;
For, speaking honestly and truly,
I would n't give it to a Coolie!
I would n't vally even a pup,
If he could stoop to eat it up;
Nor give my enemy a bit,
Although he sot and cried for it.
Recall all pizen food and slop
At stations where the rail-cars stop;
It 's more than each and all of these,
By just about sixteen degrees.
It has no nutriment, it 's trash!
It 's meaner than the meanest hash,
And sourer twenty thousand times,
Than lemons, vinegar, and limes:
It 's what I hate the man who eats;
It 's poor, cold, cussed, pickled beets!”
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |