Ballade

There stands by Cam Bridge, newely built, a Temple of the Grail

That St. Clair pleyed the Martir to, yelept the Yard of Ale.

The hosteler, goode Robert Loud, serves up the lustie draughts:

"No longer myght these premyses be called a poor monne's Schraught's.

Where once balled ladies sat and swabbed their lewdlie wandering eyne,

We now projecteth privilie to tasties masculine."

And by the Sandwiche Barre there stond Christiens of every station

A hyden String Band sawes aweye, pleying "Fascination."

The youths behind the loaded barre be alle bedecked with bibbes,

A manlie fashion introduced on Alberte Finnie's ribs.

The antient payntings all yronde, of rustics at the tillage

Were paynted by some Vassar grad, down in Greenwiche Village.

The Kitchen's like a mummer's show of menne from far countree;

The helpers all are Nubien, the sheffe's from Ytallee

A buxom waytress greets the guest, with complyments to God:

"Hello I'm Irene and we also have Baked Schrod."

"These yardlong glasses once were giv'n to coachmen In their boxes

And used by Storks in Attic tymes to Guard their cause from foxes."

"By giant Hummingbirds," one wagge remarkes, and wipes his gleaming chin,

"May God refund the poor olde crone who dropped her glass eye in.

It rolled and goggled down the neck until it lodged for fayre

And stared at her from halfway down, with sadlie fallen ayre."

Or when the mugge is hefted highe, to voyd the finall dregges,

The ale meanders o'er the chinne, and trickles down the legges.

"Progress," the barkeep gravely sayes, "The bigge ones had to come.

Just guess which neighboring sausige bin is rushing to order some?

Waldorf-St. Clair spent 250 grande to make this dumpe look olde,

"And is does," he shoutes and spits into an antique candle molde.