Pray dearest mother if you please
Cut up your double-curded cheese,
The oldest of the brotherhood.
It’s ripe, no doubt and nicely good!
Your reputation will rise treble
As we the lucious morsel nibble.
Praise will flow from each partaker
Both on the morsel and the maker!
Your suit is vain,–upon my word,
You taste not yet my double-curd;
I know the hour,–the very minute
In which I’ll plunge my cutteau in it;
Am I to learn of witless bairns
How I must manage my concerns?
As yet the fervid dog-star reigns
And gloomy Virgo holds the reigns.
Be quiet chicks, sedate and sober
And house your stomachs till October;
Then for a feast! Upon my word,
I’ll really cut my double curd.