THE FOOD OF FICTION



To breakfast, dinner, or to lunch
My steps are languid, once so speedy;
E'en though, like the old gent in PUNCH,
"Not hungry, but, thank goodness! greedy."
I gaze upon the well-spread board,
And have to own--oh, contradiction!
Though every dainty it afford,
There's nothing like the food of fiction.

"The better half"--how good the sound!
Of Scott's or Ainsworth's "venison pasty,"
In cups of old Canary drowned,
(Which probably was very nasty).
The beefsteak pudding made by Ruth
To cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction,
Ah me, in all the world of truth,
There's nothing like the food of fiction!

The cakes and ham and buttered toast
That graced the board of Gabriel Varden,
In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast,
Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden.
And if you'd eat of luscious sweets
And yet escape from gout's infliction,
Just read "St. Agnes' Eve" by Keats -
There's nothing like the food of fiction.