Dear LUCY, you know what my wish is,—
    I hate all your Frenchified fuss:
  Your silly entres and made dishes
    Were never intended for us.
  No footman in lace and in ruffles
    Need dangle behind my arm-chair;
  And never mind seeking for truffles,
    Although they be ever so rare.

  But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,
    I prithee get ready at three:
  Have it smoking, and tender and juicy,
    And what better meat can there be?
  And when it has feasted the master,
    'Twill amply suffice for the maid;
  Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,
    And tipple my ale in the shade.