Pray dearest mother if you please Cut up your double-curded cheese, The oldest of the brotherhood. It's ripe, no doubt and nicely good! Your reputation will rise treble As we the lucious morsel nibble. Praise will flow from each partaker Both on the morsel and the maker!
Your suit is vain,--upon my word, You taste not yet my double-curd; I know the hour,--the very minute In which I'll plunge my cutteau in it; Am I to learn of witless bairns How I must manage my concerns? As yet the fervid dog-star reigns And gloomy Virgo holds the reigns. Be quiet chicks, sedate and sober And house your stomachs till October; Then for a feast! Upon my word, I'll really cut my double curd.