Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu/90

 "Says he, 'Dear, to murder me
 * Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,
 * While I can—and will—cook you!

"So, he boils the water, and takes the salt
 * And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot) and some chopped shalot,
 * And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
 * Which his smiling features tell,

'&apos;Twill soothing be if I let you see,
 * How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round,
 * And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
 * In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
 * And—as I eating be

The last of his chops, why I almost drops,
 * For a wessel in sight I see.