With noble and right-reverend precedents,
And show, by sanction of authority,
That 'tis a very honourable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let us rest
On better ground, the unanswerable defence.
The Pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt! Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts
An o'ergorged Epicure, to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.
If matter be not, but as Sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, though infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mire
Wherein he stands knee-deep?
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
THE life of man is but a game
However we may change the name;
What cutting out, and cutting in,
What fears to lose, what hopes to win;
Shuffling, and sorting, and concealing,
With double games, and much misdealing.
First, till to higher games he soars,
We find him playing at all fours;
Anxious to gain his little stake,
A rattle, sugar-plum, or cake;
And long before his boyish head
Has done with put the fool to bed,
Youth's season soon the table changes,
In higher circles then he ranges;
. With various partners prone to mix,
And try who plays the best odd tricks ;
And many a point, if right I ken,
Is deeply scor'd against him then.
Years of discretion bring him soon To that bewitching game vingt-un, Where many a precious hour is spent In rashly trifling with content; Doom'd still to find ill fortune suchA card too little or too much.
At thirty years, perhaps, he tries
To gain a matrimonial prize;
Then 'tis Cassino to a tittle
First comes great Cass, and then comes little.
At sixty-five, alas! we see
His match is with infirmity;
Though great the odds, yet down they set,
And his last game we'll call piquet ;
Point quint quatorze against him turn,
His run of luck 'tis vain to mourn;
He yields to what appears allotted,
Piqued and repiqued, at length capotted:
His cards thrown up-by time outscor'd,
Death rushes in, and sweeps the board.
WHO has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger,
A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,
A husband suspicious, his wife acted Ranger,
She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon.
Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,
That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;
Quoth she, I'll remember the words of my Bible,
My spouse is a stranger, and I'll take him in.
With my sentimentalibus, lachrymæ roar❜em,
And pathos and bathos delightful to see;
And chop and change ribs a-la- mode Germanorum,
And high diddle, ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.
To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough,
Where was her plate? why 'twas laid on the shelf.
Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen-stuff,
Dressing the dinner instead of herself.
No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,
Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,
With a heart full of grief and a pan full of charcoal,
She lighted the company up to their bed.
Incens'd at her flight her poor Hubby in dudgeon,
Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout;
Till tir'd with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon
Sat down and blubber'd just like a church spout.
One day on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,
Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that?
'Twas a child of the Count's, in whose service liv'd Adelaide, Sous'd in the river and squall'd like a cat.
Having drawn his young Excellence up to the bank, it
Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear,
No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,
Expos'd as he was to the Count's son and heir.
Dear Sir, quoth the Count, in reward of your valour,
To shew that my gratitude is not mere talk,
You shall eat a beef-steak, which my cook, Mrs. Haller,
Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.
Behold, now the Count gave the stranger a dinner,
With gunpowder tea, which you know brings a ball,
And thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner,
He made of the Stranger no stranger at all;
At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken,
A bird that she never had met with before,
But seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off kicking,
And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door.
To finish my tale without roundaboutation,
Young master and missee besieged their papa;
They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation;
The Stranger cried Oh! Mrs. Haller cried Ah!
Tho' pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in,
I have no good moral to give in exchange,
For tho' she, as a cook, might be given to melting,
The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange,
With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,
And pathos and bathos delightful to see,
And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum,
And high diddle, ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.
THE man that's mounted on the fleetest steed
Will always leave his comrades in the rear;
Whatever way he bid his horse proceed,
Still he is foremost on his proud career,
Up hill, or down hill, north, south, east, or west,
The noblest beast surpasses still the rest.
There's nothing, therefore, strange in the belief,
That he who shews a genius in his trade,
Be it a cobbler, ploughboy, tinker, chief,
Whether he hold a sword, or pen, or blade,
Would still preserve his genius and would shew it,
Should he become a Bishop, King, or Poet.
Thus Pope, whose muse could bid the passions yield, '
Exciting fiery rage, or melting sorrow,
If fate had doomed him to the tented field,
Had rivalled the exploits of a Suwarrow; And had Suwarrow been decreed to rhyme, Still had he shined the hero of his time.
Thus, Fontenelle, the celebrated wit,
Was equally renowned for gormandizing: With judgment wise, he knew to stop the spit;
His culinary wisdom was surprising,
And, of all dainty dishes, this Apicius
Thought" Oysters fried in batter" most delicious.
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