Great epoch in the history of bards! Important day to those who woo the nine; Better than fame are visitation-cards, And heaven on earth at a great house to dine.
O cruel memory! do not conjure up The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook; Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup, And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book.
For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates, And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd; “The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:” Which ( O! ungrateful deed! ) the critics d —— d.
D — n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves; Malicious fancy makes them so expert, They write‘ bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves, And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt.
Rest, goddess, from all broils! I bless thy name, Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on! I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame, If thou, fat shade! could'st give one slice of mutton.
Yet hold — ten minutes more, and I am bless'd; Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly: Soon shall I put my hunger to the test, And all the host of miseries defy.
Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first, For well-fed valour always fights the best; And though he may of over-eating burst, His life is happy, and his death is just.
To-day I dine — not on my usual fare; Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine; Not in the park upon a dish of air: But on true eatables, and rosy wine.
Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw, To teach the empty stomach how to fill, To pour red port adown the parched craw; Without that dread dessert — to pay the bill.
I'm off — methinks I smell the long-lost savour; Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet: Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour, Once in my life as much as I can eat!
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