you're allow'd the kitchen stuff,
Be sure the meat's done quite enough;
But if your Mistress 'claps her paw,'
Then serve it up downright 'red raw.'
If fault be found, though, 'aither way,'
"It shan't be so another day;"
And still, against each new desire,
Keep up a brisk and roaring fire.
Let red hot coals the dripping savour,
To give the meat a 'foreign flavour;'
And say, whatever falls upon it,
"The more there's in't, the more there's on it."
When 'all behind,' and time the winner,
'Regarding sending up the dinner,'
Alter the clock when you begin it,
And you'll be ready to a minute.
One secret now I'll not conceal,—
Whene'er you roast a breast of veal,
The sweetbread is the Butler's luncheon,
Whoever may go short of munching.
If it be 'asked for,' make excuses
For what so many sweets produces;
Yet, O beware, his faith to prove,
Beware, beware of cupboard love!
Sops in the pan but feed desire,
Till "all the fat is in the fire:"
In Freedom's cause both risk your peace
And, Byron-like,—expire in Grease!
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