Reflections Of A Poet, On Going To A Great Dinner.

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!