If you wish to grow thinner, diminish your dinner, And take to light claret instead of pale ale; Look down with an utter contempt upon butter, And never touch bread till its toasted--or stale.

When mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food It ennobled our hearts and enriched our blood-- Our soldiers were brave and our courtiers were good. Oh! the roast beef of England. And Old England's roast beef.

Electric telegraphs, printing, gas, Tobacco, balloons, and steam, Are little events that have come to pass Since the days of the old regime. And, spite of Lempriere's dazzling page, I'd give--though it might seem bold-- A hundred years of the Golden Age For a year of the Age of Gold.

Dwellers in huts and in marble halls-- From Shepherdess up to Queen-- Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls, And nothing for crinoline. But now simplicity's not the rage, And it's funny to think how cold The dress they wore in the Golden Age Would seem in the Age of Gold.

I wish I knew the good of wishing.

I want every peasant to have a chicken in his pot on Sundays. [Fr., Je veux que le dimanche chaque paysan ait sa poule au pot.]