This text comes from The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Well! thanks be to Heaven,
The summons is given;
It's only gone seven,
And should have been six;
There's fine overdoing
In roasting and stewing,
And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!
How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly;
That John is so silly.
And never will learn
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,—
I wish they had told one
The lamp would n't burn,
Now then for some blunder
For nerves to sink under:
I never shall wonder,
Whatever goes ill.
That fish is a riddle!
It's broke in the middle.
A Turbot! a fiddle!
It's only a Brill!
It's quite over-boiled too,
The butter is oiled too,
The soup is all spoiled too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby
That Cook shall not stop!
As sure as the morning,
She gets a month's warning,
My orders for scorning—
There's nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,
I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!
Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter
That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,
I'm born to be vext!
The pudding brought on too,
And aiming at ton too!
And where is that John too.
The plague that he is?
He's off on some ramble:
And there is Miss Campbell,
Enjoying the scramble,
Detestable Quiz!
The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,
An Ogre would shy it
So ruddy as that!
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it's put on
Converts to a button
Each drop of the fat.
The beef without mustard!
My fates to be flustered,
And there comes the custard
To eat with the hare!
Such flesh, fowl, and fishing,
Such waiting and dishing,
I cannot help wishing
A woman might swear!
O dear! did I ever—
But no, I did never—
Well, come, that is clever,
To send up the brawn!
That cook, I could scold her,
Gets worse as she's older;
I wonder who told her
That woodcocks are drawn!
It's really audacious!
I cannot look gracious;
Lord help the voracious
That came for a cram!
There's Alderman Fuller
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the color,
Were boiled with the ham!
Well, where is the curry?
I'm all in a flurry.
No, Cook's in no hurry—
A stoppage again!
And John makes it wider,
A pretty provider!
By bringing up cider
Instead of champagne!
My troubles come faster!
There's my lord and master
Detects each disaster,
And hardly can sit:
He cannot help seeing,
All things disagreeing;
If he begins d—ing
I'm off in a fit.
This cooking?—it's messing!
The spinach wants pressing,
And salads in dressing
Are best with good eggs.
And John—yes, already—
Has had something heady,
That makes him unsteady
In keeping his legs.
How shall I get through it?
I never can do it,
I'm quite looking to it,
To sink by and by.
O! would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now,
And have a good cry.