The complete title is given as "A Pudding Pastoral, occasioned by the late Resolution of the Common-Council, to set aside the annual dinner at Guildhall on Lord Mayor's Day. Addressed to my dear Friend, Mr. B—y, of the L—g R—m, at the C—m-H—e." In this first of three Pudding Pastosrals Lycidas enquires why Corydon is so downcast, and is informed that the Lord Mayor's feast is no longer a culinary option: "There once was a time, it is true, | I could feast at the City's expence, | Now, my dear, there's the devil to do, | Common Councilmen seem to have sense." The poem is signed "O."
Ah why is my Corydon sad,
Who once was so blythsome and gay?
Can turtle no longer be had?
Or is ven'son quite vanish'd away?
Tho' marrow-fat peas are gone by,
And asparagus charms us no more,
Marrow puddings the loss may supply,
And we'll eat till our stomachs run o'er.
Ah, Lycidas, cease to enquire,
Poor Corydon well may complain;
Rump steaks on a clear kitchen fire,
Will ne'er make me happy again!
How pleas'd did my Corydon look,
With a napkin tuck'd under his chin!
With a paunch that might credit a cook,
Or a good jolly host at an inn!
When all calm and serene as a cat,
His whiskers he greas'd at Guildhall;
Peg'd away on the lean and the fat,
Soup, puddings, pies, custards, and all.
There once was a time, it is true,
I could feast at the City's expence,
Now, my dear, there's the devil to do,
Common Councilmen seem to have sense.
Yes, Lycidas, well may you stare,
But I don't tell a word of a lie;
You perhaps may advise me to swear,
But it comforts my kidney's to cry.
Must your pipe and your crook be forgot?
Have debentures quite fled from your mind?
Must certificates all go to pot?
And in cockets no charms can you find?
How blest are the swains at a treat,
Who from dainties to dainties can roam?
But I fear 'tis my fortune to eat
Legs of mutton and turnips at home.
The plumb pudding's a very good dish,
And roast beef's the delight of my eye;
The cod's a most excellent fish,
And here's charms in an hot pidgeon pie.
Yet what are such trifles as these,
Tho' a man should delight in them all?
They're no better than mustard or cheese,
When compar'd with a feast at Guildhall.
Then well may my Corydon weep,
And the loss of good eating deplore;
Lord Mayor's Day they no longer will keep,
In the manner they kept it before.
But banish this sorrow, my lad,
For why should my shepherd's despair?
Good dinners are still to be had,
And I'm sure you'll come in for a share.