Classic Poem

Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is,—
—I hate all your Frenchified fuss;
Your silly entrées 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.