English poem
ONIONS
Come, follow me by the smell, Here are delicate onions to sell; I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, You'll feed like a farmer; For this is every cook's opinion, No savoury dish without an onion; But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: Or else you may spare Your mistress a share, The secret will never be known: She cannot discover The breath of her lover, But think it as sweet as her own.
More by Jonathan Swift
- On The Vowels
- On The Words Brother Protestants And Fellow Christians, So Familiarly Used By The Advocates For The Repeal Of The Test-Act In Ireland
- On Time
- On Wood The Ironmonger.
- ORANGES
- OYSTERS
- Parody On A Character Of Dean Smedley, Written In Latin By Himself[1]
- Parody On The Recorder Of Blessington's Address To Queen Anne