Farm Breakfast
Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife
And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife
And dogs are ever in the way to watch
The mouldy crust and falling bone to catch
The wooden dishes round in haste are set
And round the table all the boys are met
All know their own save Hodge who would be first
But every one his master leaves the worst
On every wooden dish, a humble claim
Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name
From every nook the smile of plenty calls
And rusty flitches decorate the walls
Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease
All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease