To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling,
And then to take a half-year's filling
In P. N.'s pious Row—
When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son,
Thro' something we have worn our pens on
For Longman and his Co.
O come and tell us what the Pole is-
Whether it singular and sole is,-
Or straight, or crooked bent,—
If very thick or very thin,—
Made of what wood-and if akin
To those there be in Kent?
There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall,
Have talk'd of poles-yet, after all,
What has the public learn'd?
And Hunt's account, must still defer,—
He sought the poll at Westminster—
And is not yet return'd!
Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul,
Is play'd in snow-towns near the Pole,
And how the fur-man deals?
And Eldon doubts if it be true,
That icy Chancellors really do
Exist upon the seals!
Barrow, by well-fed office grates,
Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits,
And longs that he were there;
And Croker, in his cabriolet,
Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay,
And pants to cross the mer!
O come away, and set us right,
And, haply, throw a northern light
On questions such as these :—
Whether, when this drown'd world was lost,
The surflux waves were lock'd in frost,
And turn'd to Icy Seas!
Is Ursa Major white or black?
Or do the Polar tribes attack
Their neighbours-and what for?
Whether they ever play at cuffs,
And then, if they take off their muffs
In pugilistic war?
Tell us, is Winter champion there,
As in our milder fighting air?
Say, what are Chilly loans?
What cures they have for rheums beside,
And if their hearts get ossified
From eating bread of bones?
Whether they are such dwarfs-the quicker
To circulate the vital liquor,—
And then, from head to heel-
How short the Methodists must choose
Their dumpy envoys not to lose
Their toes in spite of zeal?
Whether 'twill soften or sublime it
To preach of Hell in such a climate-
Whether may Wesley hope
To win their souls-or that old function
Of seals-with the extreme of unction-
Bespeaks them for the Pope?
Whether the lamps will e'er be "learn'd"
Where six months' "midnight oil" is burn'd,
Or Letters must confer
With people that have never conn'd
An A, B, C, but live beyond
The Sound of Lancaster!
O come away at any rate—
Well hast thou earn'd a downier state-
With all thy hardy peers-
Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock,
And rub thy feet with opodeldock,
After such frosty years.
Mayhap, some gentle dame at last,
Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd,
However coy before,
Shall bid thee now set up thy rest
In that Brest Harbour, woman's breast,
And tempt the Fates no more!
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.,
AUTHOR OF THE COOK'S ORACLE,' 99 66 OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL
MUSIC, THE ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING
LIFE,' ""PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-
GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES," "THE HOUSEKEeper's ledger,"
THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL.
"I rule the roast, as Milton says!"-Caleb Quotem.
OH! multifarious man!
Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton !
Born to enlighten
The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking—
Master of the Piano-and the Pan-
As busy with the kitchen as the skies!
Now looking
At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes,-
Or boiling eggs-timed to a metronome-
As much at home
In spectacles as in mere isinglass-
In the art of frying brown-as a digression
On music and poetical expression,-
Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas!
Could tell Calliope from "Callipee!"
How few there be
Could leave the lowest for the highest stories,
(Observatories,)
And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator,
However cook's synonymous with Kater!
Alas! still let me say,
The carving knife beside the tuning fork,
Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work!
Oh, to behold thy features in thy book!
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate,
How it would look !
With one rais'd eye watching the dial's date,
And one upon the roast, gently cast down-
Thy chops-done nicely brown—
The garnish'd brow-with "a few leaves of bay"
The hair-" done Wiggy's way!"
And still one studious finger near thy brains,
As if thou wert just come
—or hashing Dibdin's cold remains! Or, Orpheus-like,-fresh from thy dying strains Of music,-Epping luxuries of sound,
As Milton says, "in many a bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out," Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round!
Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal,
Standing like Fortune, on the jack-thy wheel.
(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes,
Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!)
Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges,
As tho' it were the same to sing or fry-
Nay, so it is hear how Miss Paton's throat
Makes "fritters" of a note!
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?
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