e honor'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_!

VIII.

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 Quot'em--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
Was haunted by a 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!

IX.

Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast--
(His honor seems to rest!--)
And what is thy reward?--Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service?
Alas! not even
The tokens it bestowed 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_!

THE LAST MAN.

I.

'Twas in the year two thousand and one,
A pleasant morning of May,
I sat on the gallows-tree, all alone,
A channting a merry lay,--
To think how the pest had spared my life,
To sing with the larks that day!

II.

When up the heath came a jolly knave,
Like a scarecrow, all in rags:
It made me crow to see his old duds
All abroad in the wind, like flags;--
So up he came to the timber's foot
And pitch'd down his greasy bags.--

III.

Good Lord! how blythe the old beggar was