More or less, the musings of a graduate of a Scottish university, born in New York, formerly resident in South Africa, and now living in London.
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Of poets & cheese

Illustration by Theodore Schluenderfritz

FOR G. K CHESTERTON to claim that poets have been “silent” on the subject of cheese is not quite accurate, as, while they have by no means been particularly vocal, one does occasionally stumble upon cheesely verse. I only cite one such example from The Farmer’s Boy of Robert Bloomfield (n. 1766, m. 1823).

Where shadowing realms obstruct the morning ray,
Begins their work, begins the simple lay ;
The full-charged udder yields its willing streams,
While Mary sings some lover’s amorous dreams ;
And crouching Giles beneath a neighbouring tree
Tugs o’er his pail, and chants with equal glee.
Whose hat with tatter’d brim, of nap so bare,
From the cow’s side purloins a coat of hair,
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade.
As unambitious too that cheerful aid
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ;
With joy she views her plenteous reeking store,
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door ;
Her cows dissmiss’d, the luscious mead to roam,
Till eve again recall them loaded home,
And now the Dairy claims her choicest care,
And half her household find employment there ;
Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream
At once forgoes its quality and name ;
From knotty particles first floating wide
Congealing butter’s dash’d from side to side ;
Streams of new milk through flowing coolers stray,
And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome whey.
Due north th’ unglazed windows, cold and clear,
For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here.
Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand,
And Giles must trudge, whoever gives command ;
A Gibeonite, that serves them all by turns ;
He drains the pump, from him the faggot burns ;
From him the noisy hogs demand their food ;
While at his heels run many a chirping brood,
Or down his path in expectation stand,
With equal claims upon his strewing hand.
Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees
The bustle o’er, and press’d the new-made cheese.
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1 Comment so far
  1. 28 June 2009
    5:07 am

    Of course, we also have Belloc’s essay “On Cheeses”!

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