Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee;
The worts, the purslane, and the mess
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;
And my content
Makes those and my beloved beet
To be more sweet.
‘Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
And giv’st me wassail-bowls to drink
Spiced to the brink.