Breakfast
Mary Lamb
1764 to 1847
Track 1
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Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Where the sugar's piled high,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
When all have finished, one by one
Cheerful notice we are living
Or else in idle mood he uses
And may not vie with sweet 'Good Morrow',
Sleepy Robert never hears
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
At the social table round,
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Not one of these deserves the praise
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
Those kindly words we use 'Good night',
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Now although I would not slight
In their way pleasant. But to me
Of those notes which never tire,
Listening to the lively sound
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
With which again our friends we greet,