’Twas on Saint Andrew’s day, Our way thro’ Fleet Street lay; We sniff’d the pudding then! We scorn’d all foreign fare, True British food was there, To “cut and come agen.” Our landlord carved with manner grave, Brave portions to each guest he gave, Nor thought he of his booty, Nor thought he of his booty. Along the boards the signal ran, “Charlie” expects that ev’ry man Will pay and do his duty, Will pay and do his duty. And now the waiters pour Prime “Burton” foaming o’er “Old William” marks his prey! No tips that waiter claimed, Long be that waiter famed, Who smiles and makes it pay! Not dearly was that pudding bought, For ev’ry hungry Briton sought A “follow” from that beauty, A “follow” from that beauty. With plate on plate each waiter ran; “Charlie” confessed that ev’ry man That day had done his duty, That day had done his duty. At last the fatal sound, Which spread dismay around, The pudding’s off, the pudding’s off at last! “The vict’ry’s on your side, The day’s your own” Moore cried! “I serve and have to fast! However large that pudding be, No scrap is ever left for me! Content I do my duty! Content I do my duty! For to complain was ne’er my plan.” Let all confess that Moore, good man, Has ever done his duty, Has ever done his duty! 1890. W.H.