And your children, "Little Father"? They are lying
In their thousands at your threshold, waiting death.
Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls are dying!
Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted breath?
On armaments aggressive are you spending
What might solace the "black people" midst their dead?
Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending
Is there _nothing_ left for bread?
* * * * *
BOUILLABAISSE.
[There has been some correspondence lately about
Bouillabaisse, and a writer in the _Evening News_ (who
misquotes THACKERAY) actually gives a recipe without oil!]
Our THACKERAY in ancient days,
Wrote of a very famous dish,
And said in stanzas in its praise,
'Twas made of several kinds of fish.
A savoury stew it is indeed,
And he's "in comfortable case"
Who finds before him at his need
A smoking dish of Bouillabaisse.
And now folks laud that dish again,
And o'er it raise a pretty coil,
While one rash man we see with pain,
Would dare to make it minus oil.
Oh! shade of TERRE, you no doubt
Would make once more the "droll grimace,"
At such a savage, who left out
The olive oil, in Bouillabaisse.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37