COFFEE BY ARTHUR GRAY
O, boiling, bubbling berry, bean!
Thou consort of the kitchen queen-
Browned and ground of every feature,
The only aromatic creature,
For which we long, for which we feel,
The breath of morn, the perfumed meal.
For what is tea! It can but mean,
Merely the mildest go-between.
Insipid sobriety of thought and mind
It “cuts no figure”—we can find-
Save peaceful essays, gentle walks,
Purring cats, old ladies’ talks”—
But coffee I can other tales unfold.
It’s history’s written round and bold-
Brave buccaneers upon the “Spanish main,”
The army’s march across the length’ng plain.
The lone prospector wandering o’er the hill,
The hunter’s camp, thy fragrance all distill.
So here’s a health to coffee! coffee hot!
A morning toast! Bring on another pot.
