Poem by Richard Leveridge

A Song in Praise of Old English Roast Beef

When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s Food, 
It enobled our Veins and enriched our Blood, 
Our Soldiers were brave and our Courtiers were good. 
	Oh the Roast Beef of Old England, 
	And Old English Roast Beef.

But since we have learn’d from all-conquering France
To eat their Ragouts as well as to dance, 
We are fed up with nothing but vain Complaisance. 
	Oh the Roast Beef, &c.

Our Fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong, 
And kept open House with good Cheer all Day long, 
Which made their plump Tenants rejoice in this song,
	Oh the Roast Beef, &c.
 
But now we are dwindled, to what shall I name? 
A sneaking poor Race, half begotten – and tame, 
Who sully those Honours that once shone in Fame. 
	Oh the Roast Beef, &c.

When good Queen Elizabeth was on the Throne, 
E’er Coffee, or Tea, and such Slip Slops were known, 
The World was in Terror, if e’er she did frown. 
	Oh the Roast Beef, &c.

In those Days, if Fleets did presume on the Main, 
They seldom or never return’d back again, 
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain. 
	Oh the Roast Beef, &c.

Oh then they had Stomachs to eat and to fight,
And when Wrongs were a-cooking to do themselves right!
But now we’re a – I cou’d – but good Night.
	Oh the Roast Beef of Old England,
	And Old English Roast Beef.

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