It’s morning on the farm, and the kitchen is alive with noise and hunger. Maids shout in a kind of cheerful competition, the cat comes running at the whisk of a knife, and dogs skulk about hoping for a dropped crust. Wooden dishes are slapped onto the table, each marked with rough-carved initials so the boys know their place — except Hodge, who snatches the fullest bowl, leaving the meagre one for the master. Smoked bacon flitches hang from the walls, and a tattered almanac, smudged with candle drips and grease, sits nearby. The whole scene is messy, familiar, and warmly affectionate. The speaker isn’t there to judge the grime; he’s celebrating the rough plenty and lively spirit of a shared meal. You can feel the bustle and the comfort, the small daily dramas and appetites that bind this household together. It’s a poem that makes you hungry for thick slices of bacon and the simple theatre of a farm breakfast.
Farm Breakfast — Summary
Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife, And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife, And dogs are ever in the way to watch The mouldy crust and falling bone to catch. The wooden dishes round in haste are set, And round the table all the boys are met; All know their own save Hodge who would be first, But every one his master leaves the worst. On every wooden dish, a humble claim, Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name; From every nook the smile of plenty calls, And rusty flitches decorate the walls, Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease-- All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease.