The outward man will soon cull rarity,
For 'tis th' effect of what we eat
To make a man look like his meat,
As insects show their food's complexions:
Thus foplings' clothes are like confections.
But who to feed a jaunty coxcomb,
Would have an Abyssinian ox come?-
Or serve a dish of fricassees,
To clodpoles in a coat of frieze?
Whereas a black would call for buffalo
Alive-and, no doubt, eat the offal too
Now, (this premised) it follows then
That certain culinary men
Should first go forth with pans and spits
To bring the heathens to their wits,
(For all wise Scotchmen of our century
Know that first steps are alimentary;
And, as we have prov'd, flesh pots and saucepans
Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans ;)
But Bunyan err'd to think the near gate
To take man's soul, was battering Ear gate,
When reason should have work'd her course
As men of war do-when their force
Can't take a town by open courage,
They steal an entry with its forage.
What reverend bishop, for example,
Could preach horn'd Apis from his temple?
Whereas a cook would soon unseat him,
And make his own churchwardens eat him.
Not Irving could convert those vermin
Th' Anthropophages, by a sermon ;
Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice,
Would "take a shin of beef and spice,”-
And raise them such a savoury smother,
No Negro would devour his brother,
But turn his stomach round as loth
As Persians, to the old black broth,-
For knowledge oftenest makes an entry,
As well as true love, thro' the pantry,
* Cook to the late Sir Joseph Banks.
Where beaux that came at first for feeding
Grow gallant men and get good breeding ;—
Exempli gratia—in the West,
Ship-traders say there swims a nest
Lin'd with black natives, like a rookery,
But coarse as carrion crows at cookery.-
This race, though now call'd O. Y. E. men,
(To show they are more than A. B. C. men,)
Was once so ignorant of our knacks
They laid their mats upon their backs,
And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon
On trees that baked them in the sunshine.
As for their bodies, they were coated,
(For painted things are so denoted ;)
But, the naked truth is, stark primevals,
That said their prayers to timber devils,
Allow'd polygamy-dwelt in wig-wams,—
And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams.—
And why?-because their savage nook
Had ne'er been visited by Cook,—
And so they fared till our great chief
Brought them, not methodists, but beef,
In tubs,- and taught them how to live,
Knowing it was too soon to give,
Just then, a homily on their sins,
(For cooking ends ere grace begins)
Or hand his tracts to the untractable
Till they could keep a more exact table—
For nature has her proper courses,
And wild men must be back'd like horses,
Which, jockeys know, are never fit
For riding till they've had a bit
I' the mouth; but then, with proper tackle,
You may trot them to a tabernacle;
Ergo (I say) he first made changes
In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges,
And taught the king's cook, by convincing
Process, that chewing was not mincing,
And in her black fist thrust a bundle
Of tracts abridg'd from Glasse and Rundell,
Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits.
She saw the spareness of her habits,
And round her loins put on a striped
Towel, where fingers might be wiped,
And then her breast clothed like her ribs,
(For aprons lead of course to bibs)
And, by the time she had got a meat-
Screen, veil'd her back, too, from the heat-
As for her gravies and her sauces,
(Tho' they reform'd the royal fauces,)
Her forcemeats and ragouts,—I praise not,
Because the legend further says not,
Except, she kept each Christian high-day,
And once upon a fat good Fry-day
Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan,
That turn'd the spit, to chop up Dagon !—
"Alas! what perils do inviron
That man who meddles with a siren !
ON Margate beach, where the sick one roams, And the sentimental reads;
Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comesLike the ocean-to cast her weeds ;
Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships,—
Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells,—
And the Chandler for watery dips ;—
There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,
As lovely and fair as sin !
But woe, deep water and woe to him
That she snareth like Peter Fin!
Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,
And her locks are golden and loose;
And seek to her feet, like other folk's heirs,
To stand, of course, in her shoes!
And, all day long, she combeth them well,
With a sea-shark's prickly jaw;
And her mouth is just like a rose-lipp'd shell,
The fairest that man e'er saw!
And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be, Hath planted his seat by her side;
"Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea, To make thee so watch the tide?"
She turn'd about with her pearly brows,
And clasped him by the hand :
"Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house
On the golden Goodwin Sand."
And then she gave him a siren kiss,
No honeycomb e'er was sweeter:
Poor wretch! how little he dreamt for this
That Peter should be salt-Peter!
And away with her prize to the wave she leapt, Not walking, as damsels do,
With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept,
But she hopt like a Kangaroo !
One plunge, and then the victim was blind,
Whilst they gallop'd across the tide;
At last, on the bank he waked in his mind,
And the Beauty was by his side.
One half on the sand, and half in the sea,
But his hair all began to stiffen ;
For when he look'd where her feet should be,
She had no more feet than Miss Biffen!
But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth,
In the dabbling brine did soak:
At last she open'd her pearly mouth,
Like an oyster, and thus she spoke :
'You crimpt my father, who was a skate ;— And my sister you sold-a maid;
So here remain for a fishlike fate,
For lost you are, and betray'd!"
And away she went, with a seagull's scream,
And a splash of her saucy tail;
In a moment he lost the silvery gleam
That shone on her splendid mail!
The sun went down with a blood-red flame,
And the sky grew cloudy and black,
And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came,
Each over the other's back!
Ah, me! it had been a beautiful scene,
With the safe terra-firma round;
But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him,
Like those in a church-yard ground;
And Christians love in the turf to lie,
Not in watery graves to be;
Nay, the very fishes will sooner die
On the land than in the sea.
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