JUNE. O perfect period of the sweet birds' tune, Red mullet, first of fish, is prime in June, To dine where Thames is cool, and whitebait crisp, And soft the manners are and lax the morals. But I (when twilight's breezes swiftly stir, Rob the rich roses, through the woodbine lisp) Dine on my lawn, hedged in by limes and laurels. 1870. JULY. July,—the month of odorous orange flowers- Cool cream of Devon the acid touch assuages- Through the full-foliaged copse the leveret scours. Flutters the wheatear now, and sails the plover— Whoso is wise the latter bird will roast, And serve him, smoking on anchovy toast. What else? Blue borage flowers; and so the lover 1870. AUGUST. August arrives. We enter the august Portal of autumn, graced by delicate clusters Of grapes grown purple under noontide lustres, Whence the white feet of girls shall tread the must Of a great vintage. But the perilous dust Of battle rises, and the War Fiend blusters, And, as along the Rhine each army musters, Its vineyards shudder at the sword's sharp thrust. Still rolls the year: adjourns the Commons' House: Peers to their parks and prelates to their cloisters Return: for lo, the Twelfth brings back the Grouse— Even as the famous Fourth is opening Oysters. Birds and mollusks to the Epicure most dearAlas, and dearer every mortal year! SEPTEMBER. Alas! September shakes a great dominion: Who eats Cramouski à la Cardinal, Rôti de grives, or partridge-soup with Bignon ? Clicquot and Heidsieck, Piper, Moët, Roederer, Shall not be quaffed in Pleasure's fair pavilions; These slake the thirst of tasteless Teuton millions, Cooling the throat of many a licensed murdererWhich I consider a confounded sell. 1870. OCTOBER. October! Month of the climax! King of game, The pheasant, of the beech-copse peerless denizen, Deserves the epicure's right earnest benison, Deserves the well-skilled sportsman's careful aim. ... [Alas, hens hatch them, and they're much too tame!] Moreover, excellent is red-deer venison; And partridge, plump as girl be-rhymed by Tennyson, Still on the palate hath a special claim. You can begin with oysters-go to Rule's: But the herring suits the men who are not fools. And the first frost will make the medlars ripe. NOVEMBER. Now nobler grows the sirloin of the ox, As autumn fields grow mistier and moister; And, dainty fit to tempt a nun from cloister, November for the epicure unlocks The secret of the truffle. Humanity with foies. Strasburg shocks Who love to royster Know well that plumper, sweeter, grows the oyster: While for fierce-hungry followers of the fox, Who love a mighty joint of the ancient sort, Washed down with mighty gulps of ancient port, After a rapid run a royal revel For them the solid splendour of the beef; Capon and pheasant yield a light relief; And turkeys' thighs are now just fit to devil. G DECEMBER. I don't know what to say about December: Through which let no vile air of unreality Two decades back? You'd give a principality To be a boy again, and to dismember Your goose with the boy's invincible appetite, And think that you had wisely bridged the isthmus Betwixt two years. What will you say to-night, Having grown somewhat cool, and calm, and wise, And not particularly fond of Christmas? 1871. |