Margarine—the prefix “oleo-” Latterly has been effaced, Though no doubt in many a folio Of the grocer’s ledger traced— Once I arrogantly rated You below the cheapest lard; Once your “g” enunciated, With pedantic rigour, hard. How your elements were blended Naught I knew; but wild surmise Hinted horrors that offended Squeamish and fastidious eyes. Now this view, unjust, unfounded, I recant with deep remorse, Knowing you are not compounded From the carcass of the horse. Still with glances far from genial I beheld you, margarine, And restricted you to menial Services in my cuisine. Still I felt myself unable, Though you helped to fry my fish, To endure you at my table Nestling in the butter-dish. _Now_ that I have clearly tracked your Blameless progress from the nut, I proclaim your manufacture As a boon, without a “but.” Now I trudge to streets far distant, Humbly in your queue to stand, Till the grocer’s tired assistant Dumps the packet in my hand. Though you lack the special savour Of the product of the churn, Still the difference in flavour I’m beginning to unlearn. Thoughts of Devonshire or Dorset From my mind have vanished quite, Since the stern demands of war set Limits to my appetite. Butter is of course delicious; But when that is dear and scant Welcome, margarine, nutritious Palatable lubricant! A BALLAD OF EELS [“Lord Desborough has just been reminding us of the neglected source of food supply that we have in the eels of our rivers and ponds. He stated, ‘The food value of an eel is remarkable. In food value one pound of eels is better than a loin of beef.… The greatest eel-breeding establishment in the world is at Comacchio, on the Adriatic. This eel nursery is a gigantic swamp of 140 miles in circumference. It has been in existence for centuries, and in the sixteenth century it yielded an annual revenue of £1,200 to the Pope.’”—_Liverpool Daily Post._] When lowering clouds refuse to lift And spread depression far and wide, And when the need of strenuous thrift Is loudly preached on every side, What boundless gratitude one feels To DESBOROUGH, inspiring chief, For telling us: “One pound of eels Is better than a loin of beef”! Of old, Popes made eel-breeding pay (At least Lord DESBOROUGH says they did), And cleared _per annum_ in this way Twelve hundred jingling, tingling quid. In fact my brain in anguish reels To think we never took a leaf Out of the book which taught that eels Are better than prime cuts of beef. In youth, fastidiously inclined, I own with shame that I eschewed, Like most of my unthinking kind, This luscious and nutritious food; But now that DESBOROUGH reveals Its value, with profound belief I sing with him: “One pound of eels Is better than a loin of beef.”