REFLECTIONS OF A POET,

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!