Volume 156 — NEW BREAD FOR OLD.

As I walked forth in Baker Street As sober as a Quaker, Whom did I have the luck to meet? I met a jolly Baker. His voice was gay, his eye was bright, His step was light and airy, His face and arms were powdered white— I think he was a fairy; He danced beneath the April moon, And as he danced he trolled Wild snatches of an ancient rune, Yet all the burden of his tune Was "New—Bread—for Old!" Quoth I: "Whence got you, lad, a heart So glad that you must show it?" Quoth he: "The Baker hath his art No less, Sir, than the Poet; I tell ye, I'm so blithe to-night I'd paint the old Moon's orb red! Oh, think ye that I took delight For years in baking war-bread? One shape, one colour and one size, By Government controlled? But now all this to limbo flies; What wonder that to-night I cries 'New—Bread—for Old?' "Good Sir, the Baker hath a soul And loves to make bread pleasant— The Twist, the long Vienna Roll, The Horseshoe and the Crescent, The Milk, the Tin, the lovely loaf Where currants one discovers, The Wholemeal for the country oaf, The Knot for all true lovers. So, till upon the glowing East The sun in red and gold Comes forth to bake the daily feast, I'll cry with heart as light as yeast, 'New—Bread—for Old!'"