Salad

To make this condiment, your poet begs
    The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
    Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,
    Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
    Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
    And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
    Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
    Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
    But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
    To add a double quantity of salt.
    And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
    A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.
    Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!
    'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
    Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
    And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!
    Serenely full, the epicure would say,
    Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!