D_ear Lucy, you know what my wish is_--
I_ hate all your Frenchified fuss_:
Y_our silly entrées and made dishes_
W_ere never intended for us_.
N_o footman in lace and in ruffles_
N_eed dangle behind my arm-chair_;
A_nd never mind seeking for truffles_
A_lthough they be ever so rare_.
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: