O, Martin! how thine eye-- That one would think had put aside its lashes,-- That can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter Lane,-- For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein-- Gods! is there no _Horse-spital_! That such raw shows must sicken the humane! Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his _pane_! VI. O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses! O wipe away the national reproach-- And find a decent Vulture for their corses! And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach! Steeds that confess "the luxury of _wo_!" True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack Shall sorrow for thee,--sore with kick and blow And bloody gash--it is the Indian knack-- (Save that the savage is his own tormentor)-- Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf-- The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their grief's met in a common _Centaur_! ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. _Author of the Cook's Oracle--Observations on Vocal Music--the Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life--Practical Observations on Telescopes, Opera Glasses, and Spectacles--the Housekeeper's Ledger--and the Pleasure of Making a Will._ I rule the roast, as Milton says!--CALEB QUOTEM. I. Hail! 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 "Calliopee!" 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_![218] Alas! still let me say, How few could lay The carving-knife beside the tuning-fork, Like the proverbial _Jack_ ready for any work! II.