Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is, - br I hate all your Frenchified fuss: br Your silly entrées and made dishes br Were never intended for us. br No footman in lace and in ruffles br Need dangle behind my arm-chair; br And never mind seeking for truffles, br Although they be ever so rare. br br But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, br I pr'ythee get ready at three: br Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy, br And what better meat can here be? br And when it has feasted the master, br 'Twill amply suffice for the maid; br Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, br And tipple my ale in the shade.