Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife, <br />And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife, <br />And dogs are ever in the way to watch <br />The mouldy crust and falling bone to catch. <br />The wooden dishes round in haste are set, <br />And round the table all the boys are met; <br />All know their own save Hodge who would be first, <br />But every one his master leaves the worst. <br />On every wooden dish, a humble claim, <br />Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name; <br />From every nook the smile of plenty calls, <br />And rusty flitches decorate the walls, <br />Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease-- <br />All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/farm-breakfast/
