Sallet

[Intro] Come gather round the market stall, Where winter fare grows sweet for all! A Huguenot cart has crossed the foam, With garden treasures bound for home. [Verse 1] Sweet Orange Roots, so bright and fine, Flemish carrots in a golden line! No bitter white root for the pot tonight— These snap like sugar, fresh and bright. Cushion Cabbages, packed up tight, Sweet little heads for the frost-bit night; They sleep through winter, firm and green, The finest leaves the town has seen. [Pre-Chorus] Herba Salata, bring the bowl— Romaine and endive, sorrel whole! But if your doctor starts to shout, We know the proper way about! [Chorus] Warm the herbs, warm the herbs, Hot oil marching in! Heavy mustard, vinegar bright, Let the salad's feast begin! Rosemary, sage, and thyme, Lock the humours tight in time; No weak skin, no plague-door fear— Eat the garden, bring it here! [Verse 2] Beneath the glass cloche, treasures grow: Radish rubies in a row; Young cucumbers, pale and neat, Sheltered from the frost and sleet. Slice them thin and pass the plate, Before the physician seals the gate; He says the leaf will freeze your fire— We answer with a dressing higher! [Pre-Chorus] Pour it steaming, sharp and bold, So the stomach's hearth won't turn cold; Mustard bites and vinegar sings, Oil puts warm coats on leafy things! [Chorus] Warm the herbs, warm the herbs, Hot oil marching in! Heavy mustard, vinegar bright, Let the salad's feast begin! Rosemary, sage, and thyme, Lock the humours tight in time; No weak skin, no plague-door fear— Eat the garden, bring it here! [Bridge] Salted beef and ale have made The winter blood a sluggish trade; These roots will chase the scurvy out, Sweeten foul breath, and turn you stout! Freshness for the gums and tongue, A cleaner song from every lung; Let London learn, by bowl and bite, That green can set the humours right! [Final Chorus] Sweet Orange Roots, pass them round! Cushion Cabbages, crisp and sound! Herba Salata, dressed with cheer, Glass cloche treasures, bring them here! Warm the herbs, warm the herbs, Till the old fears flee! Rosemary, sage, and thyme, Guard the gut and keep good time; Scurvy gone and breath made sweet— Tudor greens are fit to eat! [Outro] So shop the stall and fill the bowl, Let fresh leaves mend the winter soul; With hot oil, mustard, vinegar bright— A Huguenot supper sets all right!