Where in the meadows green the oxen munch.
Is it not true that since our land began
The hornéd ox hath given us steaks for lunch?

Steaks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloin,
Sauced with the stinging radish of the horse.
Beeves meditate and die; we pay our coin,
And though the food be often tough and coarse,

We eat it, we, through whose bold British veins
Bold British hearts drive bubbling British blood.
No true-born Briton, come what may, disdains
To eat the patient chewers of the cud.

Or seek the uplands, where of old Bo Peep
(So runs the tale) lost all her fleecy flocks;
There happy shepherds tend their grazing sheep
(Some men like mutton, some prefer the ox).

Ay, surely it would need a heart of flint
To watch the blithe lambs caper o'er the lea,
And, watching them, refrain from thoughts of mint,
Of new potatoes, and the sweet green pea.

Is Lunch worth lunching? The September sun
Makes answer "Yes;" no longer must thou lag.
Forth to the stubble, cynic; take thy gun,
And add the juicy partridge to thy bag.

Out in the fields the keen-eyed pigeons coo;