Full many a sinful notion
Conceived of foreign powers
Has come across the ocean
To harm this land of ours;
And heresies called fashions
Have modestly effaced,
And baleful morbid passions
Corrupt our native taste.
O tempora! O mores!
What profanations these
That seek to dim the glories
Of apple-pie and cheese!
I'm glad my education
Enables me to stand
Against the vile temptation
Held out on every hand;
Eschewing all the tittles
With vanity replete,
I'm loyal to the victuals
Our grandsires used to eat!
I'm glad I've got three willing boys
To hang around and tease
Their mother for the filling joys
Of apple-pie and cheese!
Your flavored creams and ices
And your dainty angel-food
Are mighty fine devices
To regale the dainty dude;
Your terrapin and oysters,
With wine to wash 'em down,
Are just the thing for roisters
When painting of the town;
No flippant, sugared notion
Shall my appetite appease,
Or bate my soul's devotion
To apple-pie and cheese!
The pie my Julia makes me
(God bless her Yankee ways!)
On memory's pinions takes me
To dear Green Mountain days;
And seems like I see Mother
Lean on the window-sill,
A-handin' me and brother
What she knows'll keep us still;
And these feelings are so grateful,
Says I, "Julia, if you please,
I'll take another plateful
Of that apple-pie and cheese!"
And cheese! No alien it, sir,
That's brought across the sea, --
No Dutch antique, nor Switzer,
Nor glutinous de Brie;
There's nothing I abhor so
As mawmets of this ilk --
Give me the harmless morceau
That's made of true-blue milk!
No matter what conditions
Dyspeptic come to feaze,
The best of all physicians
Is apple-pie and cheese!
Though ribalds may decry 'em,
For these twin boons we stand,
Partaking thrice per diem
Of their fulness out of hand;
No enervating fashion
Shall cheat us of our right
To gratify our passion
With a mouthful at a bite!
We'll cut it square or bias,
Or any way we please,
And faith shall justify us
When we carve our pie and cheese!
De gustibus, 't is stated,
Non disputandum est.
Which meaneth, when translated,
That all is for the best.
So let the foolish choose 'em
The vapid sweets of sin,
I will not disabuse 'em
Of the heresy they're in;
But I, when I undress me
Each night upon my knees
Will ask the Lord to bless me
With apple-pie and cheese!
In Oberhausen, on a time,
I fared as might a king;
And now I fell the muse sublime
Inspire me to embalm in rhyme
That succulent and sapid thing
Behight of gentile and of Jew
A gosling stew!
The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best, --
Soup, cutlet, salad, roast, --
And I partook with hearty zest,
And fervently anon I blessed
That generous and benignant host,
When suddenly dawned on my view
A gosling stew!
I sniffed it coming on apace,
And as its odors filled
The curious little dining-place,
I felt a glow suffuse my face,
I felt my very marrow thrilled
With rapture altogether new, --
'T was gosling stew!
These callow birds had never played
In yonder village pond;
Had never through the gateway strayed,
And plaintive spissant music made
Upon the grassy green beyond:
Cooped up, they simply ate and grew
For gosling stew!
My doctor said I must n't eat
High food and seasoned game;
But surely gosling is a meat
With tender nourishment replete.
Leastwise I gayly ate this same;
I braved dyspepsy -- would n't you
For gosling steq?
I've feasted where the possums grow,
Roast turkey have I tried,
The joys of canvasbacks I know,
And frequently I've eaten crow
In bleak and chill Novembertide;
I barter all that native crew
For gosling stew!
And when from Rhineland I adjourn
To seek my Yankee shore,
Back shall my memory often turn,
And fiercely shall my palate burn
For sweets I'll taste, alas! no more, --
Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew
A gosling stew!
Vain are these keen regrets of mine,
And vain the song I sing;
Yet would I quaff a syoup of wine
To Oberhausen auf der Rhine,
Where fared I like a very king:
And here's a last and fond adieu
To gosling stew!
Of all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can surpass
This delicate, voluptuous thing, --
This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!
The ancients loved this noble fish;
And, coming from the kitchen fire
All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire?
"Fish should swim twice," they used to say, --
Once in their native, vapid brine,
And then again, a better way --
You understand; fetch on the wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for you,
How often gladly seen you scud
Where weeds and water-lilies grew!
How often have you filched my bait,
How often snapped my treacherous line!
Yet here I have you on this plate, --
You shall swim twice, and now in wine.
And harkee, garçon! let the blood
Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him, --
Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood
This piscatorial pride should swim;
So, were he living, he would say
He gladly died for me and mine,
And, as it were his native spray,
He'd lash the sauce -- what ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, O finny friend!
I surely were not loath to be
Reserved for such a noble end;
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless line,
What were my ecstasy to swim
In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,
Come hither every year and bring
The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However I think I might repine,
I think I might survive the blow,
If plied with wine and still more wine!
Of tarts there be a thousand kinds,
So versatile the art,
And, as we all have different minds,
Each has his favorite tart;
But those which most delight the rest
Methinks should suit me not:
The onion tart doth please me best --
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Where but in Deutschland can be found
This boon of which I sing?
Who but a Teuton could compound
This sui generis thing?
None with the German frau can vie
In arts cuisine, I wot,
Whose summum bonum breeds the sigh,
"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"
You slice the fruit upon the dough,
And season to the taste,
Then in an oven (not too slow)
The viand should be placed;
And when 't is done upon a plate
You serve it piping hot,
Your nostrils and your eyes dilate, --
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
It sweeps upon the sight and smell
In overwhelming tide,
And then the sense of taste as well
Betimes is gratified;
Three noble senses drowned in bliss!
I prithee tell me, what
Is there besides compares with this?
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
For if the fruit be proper young,
And if the crust be good,
How shall they melt upon the tongue
Into a savory flood!
How seek the Mecca down below,
And linger round that spot,
Entailing weeks and months of woe, --
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
If Nature gives men appetites
For things that won't digest,
Why, let them eat whatso delights,
And let her stand the rest;
And though the sin involve the cost
Of Carlsbad, like as not
'T is better to have loved and lost, --
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
All kinds of victuals have I tried,
All kinds of drinks as well;
But nothing known to Yankee art
Appears to reach the spot
Like this Tetonic onion tart, --
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide
As full as I can hold,
And for complete reform inside
Plank down my hoard of gold,
Remorse shall not consume my heart,
Nor sorrow vex my lot,
For I have eaten onion tart, --
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
When the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir
Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair;
When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head,
Filling bon vivants and epicures with certain nameless dread;
When any ill of body or intellect abounds,
Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes, --
In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief
That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef.
And even when the body's in the very prime of health,
When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth,
And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more,
And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four, --
Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side,
And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied,
Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief,
And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef.
Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best, --
'T' is juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest;
Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour
Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more;
The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour,
Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour,
And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf
Of that glorious summum bonum, rare roast beef.
Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife,
How does the savory viand enhance the worth of life!
Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab, --
Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab?
Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam,
A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream!
Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief!
Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef.
Most every kind and role of modern victuals have I tried,
Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried,
Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and mutton-chops subese,
Your patties à la Turkey and your doughnuts à la grease;
I've whiled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls,
And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls;
But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief
And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef.
I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood,
Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood;
And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast,
Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (feste Burg) and host;
For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath,
Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path.
So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef
When I soever set me down to rare roast beef.
Whether in Michigan they grew,
Or by the far Pacific,
Or Jerseywards, I never knew
Or cared; they were magnifique!
They set my hungry eyes flame,
My heart to beating quicker,
When trotted out by that good dame,
A-drowned in spicy liquor!
Of divers sweets in many a land
I have betimes partaken,
Yet now for those old joys I stand,
My loyalty unshaken!
My palate, weary of the ways
Of modern times, beseeches
The toothsome grace of halcyon days
And Mrs. Reilly's peaches!
Studded with cloves and cinnamon,
And duly spiced and pickled,
That viand was as choice an one
As ever palate tickled!
And by those peaches on his plate
No valorous soul was daunted,
For oh, the more of them you ate
The more of them you wanted!
The years have dragged a weary pace
Since last those joys I tasted,
And I have grown so wan of face
And oh, so slender-waisted!
Yes, all is sadly changed, and yet
If this eulogium reaches
A certain lady, I shall get
A quick return in peaches.
