Johnny Cheeseman was a grocer,

He made his pile in town.

And when he'd made it big enough

To Devonshire he came down.

He forgot his Gorgonzola,

Primest Stilton, Parmosan;

Bought a villa close to Totnes, and

Became a gentleman.

He chucked aside his apron

Never heard of "Best Mixed Teas,"

He carried no cheese-taster, for

He was himself "the cheese."

But Johnny had a failing

Determined to a swell,

An appetite omnivorous

He did himself too well.

At any kind of liquor,

He would take a cheerful pull,

And when it came to victuals, why

He'd eat a basket-full.

He was not at all particular

Whose food he gobbled up

But would drop in, in a friendly way,

To dine or tea, or sup.

His neighbour, farmer Barleycorn,

Full oft a pig would slay,

But Johnny's nose was faithful

And he always worked that way.

Now one day the little Barleycorns

And their friends were given a treat,

When Johnny turned up smiling

And as usual took his seat.

His capacious mouth it watered

At such a scrumptious sight:

'Twas Hogs' puddings like bananas

In a string all black and white.

The dish was thrice replenished

And he took the very last,

And he never broke the silence

Till he'd finished his repast.

Then he cried "I never tasted

Food as succulent and sweet,

I really must beg, dear Madam,

Now Mrs. B. was in a temper

For her children had to go

A trifle short for Johnny's sake

So she was short also.

"The secret, Sir is only known"

Says she, "to very few,

But as you are so fond of them

I'll pass it on to you.

"One day before we kill the pig

We take away his meat,

Then we wash his trough most carefully

And make it clean and sweet.

Then we mix together so much groats,

With onions, sage and rice,

Pearl-barley, parsley, pepper corns,

With nutmegs, cloves and spice.

And then we take that new scrubbed trough

As clean as any pin,

And just before we stick the pig

We put the mixture in.

Which he gobbles up, too ravenous

To be particular,

Then we cut his throat and open him

And there the puddings are !!!

Yes! there they are all smoking hot

We never stay to cook 'em"

"Oh dear!," cries John, "I'm feeling queer

I wish I'd never took 'em.

If I eat meat that's underdone

Some mischief will befall-

But these puddings are not underdone

They are not done at all.

I'm much obliged for your 'receipt'

But I'm really feeling ill;

I think I'd better hurry home,

And take a Cockles pill.

He sent to fetch the doctor

And he lay in bed a week,

He'd a tough of hoggiphobia

You could hear him grunt and squeak.

And though he's fit and well again

If you want to have some fun,

Just you show him a hogs' pudding