And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born
By name and nature) oh! how night and morn
He for the nicest public taste doth dish up
The good things from that Pan of music, Bishop!
And is not reading near akin to feeding,
Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit
Receptacles for wit?

Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart,
Minc'd brains into a Tart?

Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts,
Book-treats,

Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her-
Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read,
The Culinary Art in gingerbread-
The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar !

Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page-
Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein-
So-in a kitchen-would have talk'd Montaigne,
That merry Gascon-humourist, and sage!
Let slender minds with single themes engage,
Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,-
Or Haydon on perpetual, Haydon,—or

Hume on Twice three make four,'

Or Lovelass upon Wills,-Thou goest on
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson!
Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope,
Stuff'd with a brilliant medley of odd bits,

And ever shifting on from change to change, Saucepans-old Songs-Pills-Spectacles-and Spits! Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range!

Thy grasp a miracle !-till I recall

Th' indubitable cause of thy variety

Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all

That spying-frying-singing-mix'd Society
Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet

Welch Rabbits-and thyself-in Warren Street !

Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni,
Where learned visitors discoursed-and fed?
There came Belzoni,

Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead-
And gentle Poki-and that Royal Pair,
Of whom thou didst declare-

'Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read-
They were-what Sandwiches should be-half bred!'
There fam'd M'Adam from his manual toil
Relax'd-and freely own'd he took thy hints
On 'making Broth with Flints'

There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil
For melted butter-Combe with his medullary
Notions about the Skullery,

And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil—
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf!
Who used to swear thy book
Would really look

A Delphic Oracle,' if laid on Delf

There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd His own-and thy own- Magazine of Taste

There Wilberforce the Just

Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd
Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks,

That do not break their yolks,'

Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste!
There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore
Thy Patties-thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore,
Who call'd thee Kitchen Addison-for why?

Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills,
Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills,
'Teaching us how to live and how to die!'
There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry—
There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on
His sine Quay non-

There Martin would drop in on Monday eves,
Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath
Gainst cattle days and death,—
Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves,

Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager
For fighting on soup meagre

And yet, (as thou would'st add,) the French have seen A Marshal Tureen!'

Great was thy Evening Cluster !—often grac'd
With Dollond-Burgess-and Sir Humphry Davy!
'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to Taste,-
There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste
For puffs and Accum analysed a gravy.
Colman-the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said
Came there, and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head,
(His claim to letters)-Kater, too, the Moon's
Crony,—and Graham, lofty on balloons,—
There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated,
(Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed)-
And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ,

And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,-
Madame Valbrèque thrice honour'd thee, and came
With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,-
The Dibdins,-Tom, Charles, Frognall,-came with tuns
Of poor old books, old puns!

And even Irving spar'd a night from fame,—
And talk'd-till thou didst stop him in the middle,
To serve round Tewah-diddle 1.

Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye! So let them :-thou thyself art still a Host! Dibdin-Cornaro-Newton-Mrs. Fry!

Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec !-Lovelass-and Weber,
Matthews in Quotem-Moore's fire-worshipping
Gheber-

Thrice-worthy_Worthy! seem by thee engross'd!
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast,
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,-
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion!
Thou art, sans question,

The Corporation's love-its Doctor Darling!
Look at the Civic Palate-nay, the Bed
Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying
'Illustrations of Lying!'

Ninety square feet of down from heel to head
It measured, and I dread

1 The Doctor's composition for a night-cap.

Was haunted by that terrible night Mare,
A monstrous burthen on the corporation !-
Look at the Bill of Fare, for one day's share,
Sea-turtles by the score-Oxen by droves,
Geese, turkeys, by the flock-fishes and loaves
Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation
Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration!

Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast-
(His honour seems to rest!-)

And what is thy reward ?-Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service ?
Alas! not even

The tokens it bestow'd on Howe and Jervis !-
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak
Before the worshipful the Common Council,
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,)
Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week,
Richly engross'd on vellum:-Reason urges
That he who rules our cookery-that he
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess !

ODE TO ADMIRAL LORD GAMBIER, G.C.B.

'Well, if you reclaim such as Hood, your Society will deserve the thanks of the country.'-Temperance Society's Herald, vol. i, No. I, p. 8.

'My father, when last I from Guinea

Came home with abundance of wealth,
Said, "Jack never be such a ninny
As to drink- 19

says I, "Father, your health."'
Nothing like Grog.

OH! Admiral Gam- I dare not mention bier,

In such a temperate ear,—

Oh! Admiral Gam

an Admiral of the Blue,

Of course to read the Navy List aright,

For strictly shunning wine of either hue,

You can't be Admiral of the Red or White :

Oh, Admiral Gam! consider ere you call
On merry Englishmen to wash their throttles
With water only; and to break their bottles
To stick, for fear of trespass, on the wall
Of Exeter Hall!

Consider, I beseech, the contrariety
Of cutting off our brandy, gin, and rum
And then, by tracts, inviting us to come
And mix in your society!

In giving rules to dine, or sup, or lunch,
Consider Nature's ends before you league us
To strip the Isle of Rum of all its punch-
To dock the Isle of Mull of all its negus-
Or doom-to suit your milk-and-water view—
The Isle of Skye to nothing but sky-blue!

Consider, for appearance' sake, consider
The sorry figure of a spirit-ridder,

Going on this crusade against the suttler;
A sort of Hudibras-without a Butler !

Consider-ere you break the ardent spirits
Of father, mother, brother, sister, daughter;
What are your beverage's washy merits?
Gin may be low-but I have known low-water!

Consider well, before you thus deliver,

With such authority, your sloppy canon;
Should British tars taste nothing but the river,
Because the Chesapeake once fought the Shannon ?

Consider too-before all Eau-de-vie,
Schiedam, or other drinkers, you rebut-

To bite a bitten dog all curs agree;

But who would cut a man because he's cut?

Consider-ere you bid the poor to fill

6

Their murmuring stomachs with the murmuring

rill,'

Consider that their streams are not like ours,
Reflecting heav'u, margin'd by sweet flow'rs;