And restricted you to menial
Services in my cuisine.

Still I felt myself unable,
Though you helped to fry my fish,
To endure you at my table
Nestling in the butter-dish.

_Now_ that I have clearly tracked your
Blameless progress from the nut,
I proclaim your manufacture
As a boon, without a "but."

Now I trudge to streets far distant,
Humbly in your queue to stand,
Till the grocer's tired assistant
Dumps the packet in my hand.

Though you lack the special savour
Of the product of the churn,
Still the difference in flavour
I'm beginning to unlearn.

Thoughts of Devonshire or Dorset
From my mind have vanished quite,
Since the stern demands of war set
Limits to my appetite.

Butter is of course delicious;
But when that is dear and scant