Ye Muses nine inspire
And stir up my poetic fire;
Teach my burning soul to speak
With a bubble and a squeak!
Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing,
Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring.
O culinary sage!
(I do not mean the herb in use,
That always goes along with goose)
How have I feasted on thy page:
“When like a lobster boil’d the morn
From black to red began to turn,”
Till midnight, when I went to bed,
And clapt my tewah-diddle on my head.
Who is there cannot tell,
Thou leadest a life of living well?
“What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy Fry—er?”
In doing well thou must be reckon’d
The first,—and Mrs. Fry the second;
And twice a Job,—for, in thy fev’rish toils,
Thou wast all over roasts—as well as boils.
Thou wast indeed no dunce,
To treat thy subjects and thyself at once:
Many a hungry poet eats
His brains like thee,
But few there be
Could live so long on their receipts.
What living soul or sinner
Would slight thy invitation to a dinner,
Ought with the Danaides to dwell,
Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear
For ever in his ear
The pleasant tinkling of thy dinner bell.
Immortal Kitchener! thy fame
Shall keep itself when Time makes game
Of other men’s—yea, it shall keep, all weathers,
And thou shalt be upheld by thy pen feathers.
Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly!
Thy name shall perish never,
But be magnified for ever—
—By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly.
Yea, till the world is done—
—To a turn—and Time puts out the sun,
Shall live the endless echo of thy name.
But, as for thy more fleshy frame,
Ah! Death’s carnivorous teeth will tittle
Thee out of breath, and eat it for cold victual;
But still thy fame shall be among the nations
Preserved to the last course of generations.
Ah me, my soul is touch’d with sorrow!
To think how flesh must pass away—
So mutton, that is warm to-day,
Is cold, and turn’d to hashes, on the morrow!
Farewell! I would say more, but I
Have other fish to fry.