Breakfast MP 1B by Mary Lamb Lyrics

A dinner party, coffee, tea
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep
When its festival we keep
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use ‘Good night’
Yet parting words are words of sorrow
And may not vie with sweet ‘Good Morrow’
With which again our friends we greet
When in the breakfast-room we meet
At the social table round
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire
Of urn, or kettle on the fire
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn, or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done
Yet has he too his own pleasure
His breakfast hour’s his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly
Where the sugar’s piled high
Clambering o’er the lumps so white
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight