I think it would be pleasant 

To invite you round my house 

And dine on roasted pheasant 

Or a freshly shot up grouse. 

 

A partridge cooked with tarragon, 

Or aromatic duck, 

Or maybe quails or ptarmigan 

If we could have such luck. 

 

If not I thought that maybe 

If the birds are now in season 

A nicely plumped up capercaillie 

Would be within reason 

 

I’d also like to eat a swan 

That’s cooked in its own juice 

With lots of gravy poured upon, 

But I don’t want a goose.