IN MEMORIAM.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXVIII, Issue 6, 6 September 1915, Page 7

IN MEMORIAM.

“OLD BILL.” (Founded on Fact). Old Bill lias left the station through an overdose of Blues, He has left it in a box just six by three; He is planted neath the blue gums, with his old mate Cockney Jim, And we dressed him in his suit of dungaree. There’s a willow for a headstone, there’s a wattle at his feet, The dead marines and tins we cleared away; And we got an old camp oven, and we planted it with flowers, And we made Old Bill all neat for Judgment Day! Old Bill was chef-de-cuisine to up hungry station hacks— For nigh on twenty years he’d -been our cook ; He had watched us swell and fatten, beneath his fostering care, Without the aid of Mrs Beeton’s book! And many a hungry swagger had cause to bless his name, For he never yet refused a man a

feed; And the sundry bits of baccy cost* him many a pound a year, For he knew the swagger dearly loved his weed.

He has left his old dog Brownie to the other cook that’s come, With very strict injunction as to diet ; And his bob-tailed horse, old Damper, we have turned out at the back, There to end his days in peace and quiet. His old verge watch the Rooster, that that never told a lie, That, however stuck, old Bill would never pawn, We have laid it close beside him, for it was his dying wish To see what time old Gabriel blew the horn! Old Bill was French extraction, though he’d never been in France, But he dearly loved to be addressed as Chef; If you called him Bill or William, he would answer with a grunt, If you called him Cook, you’d find that he was deaf! But from his French extraction, Old Bill would make the boast, He’d inherited his culinary art,; . For he’d dish you up a dinner in an • a-la-Francaise way, Or he’d cook you any supper a la carte!

Old Bill’s piece-de-resistance was his Saturday’s Sea Pie— He said he’d got the recipe at sea I With the Thistle, Rose and Shamrock, ■ he would decorate the crust, And on festivals bis favorite fleur-de-lis ! But Mpnday’s, “Hash-me-Gander” was a mystery to all, Some hinted it was made of Sunday’s bits! But it would not do to breathq it, for once Old Bill got riled,. His adjectives would knock you into fits!

I His “Dough Boys,” light and airy, that we had on Baking Day, When hungry they were objects to admire! And when you’d had a couple you would visibly expand Until you felt like a pneumatic tyre! Hi s “Brownie” rivalled Buzzard’s, though rather sparse of fruit, And envious cooks have since been heard to say He put a currant for each station on the Taranaki line And a raisin for the junction on the way!

His “Spotted Dog” wag'life-like, you could almost hear it bark, The breed was celebrated round for miles! And his“Flap-Jacks,” brown and golden, with a little pumpkin jam, Would turn an angry man from frown to smile! His flakey “Pouf-de-lulus” were the envy of all cooks, We always used to have them twice a week; And When in a good humour, and things were going straight , He would treat us to a “Bubble” and a “Squeak!”

But I think Old Bill’s triumph was his celebrated “Duff,” T’was a marvel of his culinary art; There were others tried to make it, but they did not know the dodge, With the recipe Old Bill would never part! And we tried to learn the secret, with the rattles in his throat, For we knew all other cooks would be at sea; But he faintly whispered “Soda” when he gave his final gasp, Then he closed his fist and took that recipe!

He’d a toothsome little dainty, with the very vulgar name Of “His Satanic Majesty Afloat!” But you swallowed your compunction of the very vulgar name As o’er this dainty morsel you would gloat! But once Old Bill got cheque-proud, he wasn’t fit to live; And with indigestion we’d be nearly , dead I

With the burning thirst upon him, he’d growl from morn til] night, And our menu would be Mutton and Sour Bread! So every year/at Christmas he would don his largo check suit—That only saw the daylight once a year; And he’d make straight for the city with his pockets full of notes, And start his annual festival of beer! \ ' And while his money lasted, Old Bill would make things hum, He would paint that town a very ruddy hue; He would come back limp and snaky, v with his usual black eye, And settle down once more concocting Stew! The willow for his headstone is just now breaking leaf, The wattle ,at hi s feet is all in bloom; The old camp* oven’s purple with the violets that he loved, A pleasant resting-place amidst -the gloom. So epicures and gormands, and hungry station hacks, Just drop a passing tear for Old : Bill, For this world has lost an artiste, but you’ll meet him in the next, For his enemies declare he’s cooking t still! —NEU CHAMP. Stratford, 31-8-15.