s'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
From editing some
New soup--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!

III.

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?
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!

IV.

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--humorist, 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!

V.

Oh, hast thou still thos