TO MY BEEF TEA.

(By Our Dyspeptic Poet.)

When the doctor's stern decree Rings the knell of libertee, And dismisses from my sight All the dishes that delight; When my temperature is high— When to pastry and to pie Duty bids me say farewell, Then I hail thy fragrant smell! When the doctor shakes his head, Banning wine or white or red, And at all my well-loved joints Disapproving finger points; When my poultry too he stops, Then, reduced to taking "slops," I, for solace and relief, Fly to thee, O Tea of Beef! But—if simple truth I tell— I can brook thee none too well; Thy delights, O Bovine Tea, Have no special charm for me! Though thou comest piping hot, Oh, believe I love thee not! Weary of thy gentle reign— Give me oysters and champagne!