cornbeef

— But lifting his hands to high heaven, he vociferously swore, / By his hopes of an increased household, and by the nine gods of yore, / If e’er in moment propitious, again he should strive to treat / The crowd then around him to fatten on tipple and meat, / Into a Chatham street café would be his judicious “steer,” / To fill them with cornbeef sandwiches, washed down by “schooners” of beer.