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The Squatter's Baccy Famine

In blackest gloom he cursed his lot;
His breath was one long weary sigh;
His brows were gathered in a knot
That only baccy could untie.
His oldest pipe was scraped out clean;
The deuce a puff was left him there;
A hollow sucking sound of air
Was all he got his lips between.
He only said, “My life is dreary.
The Baccy's done,” he said.
He said, “I am aweary, aweary;
By Jove, I'm nearly dead.”

The chimney-piece he searched in vain,
Into each pocket plunged his fist;
His cheek was blanched with weary pain,
His mouth awry for want of twist.
He idled with his baccy-knife;
He had no care for daily bread:—
A single stick of Negro-head

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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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My Favourite Food

Here are some meals, which I really love to eat,
When, at the dinner table, I take my seat.

Lasagne served with a slice of garlic bread,
Is one of my real favourites, it has to be said.
Chunky chips and a tender gammon steak –
A really lovely meal for me, this would make.
Chilli con carne, served with pilau rice,
I also consider to be really rather nice.

A deep pan pizza, especially chicken supreme,
Is guaranteed to set my hungry eyes agleam.
Chicken of any kind, especially southern fried,
Is always a big hit with me, it can’t be denied.
Another of my favourites, is all-day brunch –
On this popular dish, I very often munch.

Britain’s favourite dish, bangers and mash,
I’m always extremely willing to give a bash.
Given lashings of sausage casserole,

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Stop-And-See

I’M STEWING in a brick-built town;
My coat is quite a stylish cut,
And, morn and even, up and down,
I travel in a common rut;
But as the city sounds recede,
In dreamy moods I sometimes see
A vision of a busy lead,
And hear its voices calling me.

My flaccid muscles seem to tweak
To feel the windlass pall and strain,
To shake the cradle by the creek,
And puddle at the ‘tom’ again.
I’d gladly sling this musty shop
To see the sluicing waters flow—
A pile of tucker, dirt on top,
And simply Lord knows what below.

’Twas lightly left, ’tis lately mourned,
The tent life up at Stop-and-See,

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Jolly Beggar I

‘THER is a wife in yone toun-end, an she has dothers three,
An I wad be a beager for ony of a’ the three.’
He touk his clouty clok him about, his peakstaff in his hand,
An he is awa to yon toun-end, leak ony peare man.
‘I ha ben about this fish-toun this years tua or three,
Ha ye ony quarters, deam, that ye coud gie me?’
‘Awa, ye pear carl, ye dinne kean my name;
Ye sudd ha caed me mistress fan ye called me bat deam.’
He tuke his hat in his hand an gied her juks three:
‘An ye want manners, misstres, quarters ye’ll gie me.’
‘Awa, ye pear carle, in ayont the fire,
An sing to our Lord Gray’s men to their hearts’ disire.’
Some lowked to his goudie lowks, some to his milk-whit skine,
Some to his ruffled shirt, the gued read gold hang in.
Out spak our madin, an she was ay shay,
Fatt will the jolly beager gett afore he gaa to lay?
Out spak our goudwife, an she was not sae shay,
He’se gett a dish of lang kell, besids a puss pay.
Out spak the jolly beager, That dish I dou denay;
I canne sup yer lang kell nor yet yer puss pay.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Amsterdam Brownies

There not my mother's specials
Though they'd give her quite a kicker
It packs a punch when you're a starter
Or an invalid, with Amish liver
Initiates I would administer
Biscuits with a pinch of hash
Than work towards the ganja cake
Which no conscience can pretend to fake
We'll strip the layers of black and white
To transcend colors of a mental flight
A first class ticket to a surrealist dance
Just bite your tongue if you must scream

Because you will be arriving into Eden

Upon the fjords up a river,
Were bicycles, are not much quicker.
Go down the Singel; a charming canal
That flows like champagne inside a well
Spot the antiques from old Orange days

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Profound

I'm not speechless, because, look, I have so much to say
But I'm astonished, surprised, and more
This is not a chore
I'm excited to remind you, remind you of that day
When we had to wash dish after dish
The day you made me wish
I could see things like you
The day you helped change me forever too
Do you know that my outlook has never been the same?
Did you know that I wallowed in shame,
I felt afflicted by God with allergy and fall
Afflcited by hardship and insomnia and it all
But you opened my eyes so that I could see
That the whole way God had been helping me
I hadn't broken a bone
But yet I'd never known
Never thought, that He had saved me from harm
Protected my body, my head, my spirit, my hand, and even my arm
I don't know how to tahkn you enough
But I'm trying... Look I wrote all this stuff

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poem by David Knox
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The Ballad of Bouillabaisse

A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is -
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is -
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,

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poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Black Bonnet

A day of seeming innocence,
A glorious sun and sky,
And, just above my picket fence,
Black Bonnet passing by.
In knitted gloves and quaint old dress,
Without a spot or smirch,
Her worn face lit with peacefulness,
Old Granny goes to church.

Her hair is richly white, like milk,
That long ago was fair --
And glossy still the old black silk
She keeps for "chapel wear";
Her bonnet, of a bygone style,
That long has passed away,
She must have kept a weary while
Just as it is to-day.

The parasol of days gone by --
Old days that seemed the best --

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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Ballad of Buillabaisse

A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is --
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is --
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,

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poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Don Juan: Dedication

Difficile est proprie communia dicere
HOR. Epist. ad PisonI
Bob Southey! You're a poet--Poet-laureate,
And representative of all the race;
Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at
Last--yours has lately been a common case;
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;II
"Which pye being open'd they began to sing"
(This old song and new simile holds good),
"A dainty dish to set before the King,"
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,
Explaining Metaphysics to the nation--
I wish he would explain his Explanation.III

You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,

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poem by Byron
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