THE ONION TART.

OF tarts there be a thousand kinds,

So versatile the art,

And, as we all have different minds,

Each has his favorite tart;

But those which most delight the rest

Methinks should suit me not:

The onion tart doth please me best,—

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

Where but in Deutschland can be found

This boon of which I sing?

Who but a Teuton could compound

This sui generis thing?

None with the German frau can vie

In arts cuisine, I wot,

Whose summum bonum breeds the sigh,

“Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!”

You slice the fruit upon the dough,

And season to the taste,

Then in an oven ( not too slow )

The viand should be placed;

And when‘ tis done, upon a plate

You serve it piping hot.

Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,—

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

It sweeps upon the sight and smell

In overwhelming tide,

And then the sense of taste as well

Betimes is gratified:

Three noble senses drowned in bliss!

I prithee tell me, what

Is there beside compares with this?

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

For if the fruit be proper young,

And if the crust be good,

How shall they melt upon the tongue

Into a savory flood!

How seek the Mecca down below,

And linger round that spot,

Entailing weeks and months of woe,—

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

If Nature gives men appetites

For things that wo n't digest,

Why, let them eat whatso delights,

And let her stand the rest;

And though the sin involve the cost

Of Carlsbad, like as not

‘ Tis better to have loved and lost,—

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

Beyond the vast, the billowy tide,

Where my compatriots dwell,

All kinds of victuals have I tried,

All kinds of drinks, as well;

But nothing known to Yankee art

Appears to reach the spot

Like this Teutonic onion tart,—

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide

As full as I can hold,

And for complete reform inside

Plank down my horde of gold,

Remorse shall not consume my heart,

Nor sorrow vex my lot,

For I have eaten onion tart,—

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!