Now soup, if you like made of beef very nice,
You'll find this the next thing to the height of perfection;
And eaten with ketchup, or thickened with rice,
Will suit you I know, if this is your selection.

My own disposition to this one inclines,
But dreadful dyspepsia destroys all the pleasure
Of dinner, except it's well tinctured with wines
Which plan I adopt as a health-giving measure.

A table well ordered, well furnished, and neat,
No wonder our nature for ever is tempting;
And I'd like to know if Mahomet could beat
Its pleasures—dyspepsia for ever exempting—
With all that he promised in paradise gained,
With Houris attendant in place of the churls
With which we are worried, tormented, and pained—
The colored men servants, or green Irish girls.