To serve round _Tewah-diddle_![6] 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, Mathews 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! Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven The squatting Demon from great Garratt’s breast-- (His honour seems to rest!--) And what is thy reward?--Hath London given Thee public thanks for thy important service? Alas! not even The tokens it bestow’d 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 shouldst 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_! TO THE DEAN AND CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER. “Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough.”-- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. Oh, very reverend Dean and Chapter, Exhibitors of giant men, Hail to each surplice-back’d adapter Of England’s dead, in her stone den! Ye teach us properly to prize Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handels, And, to throw light upon our eyes, Deal in Wax Queens like old wax candles. Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file, Call in your shillings, two and two; March with them up the middle aisle, And cloister them from public view. Yours surely are the dusty dead, Gladly ye look from bust to bust, And set a price on each great head, And make it come down with the dust. Oh, as I see you walk along In ample sleeves and ample back, A pursy and well-order’d throng, Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black! In vain I strive me to be dumb,-- You keep each bard like fatted kid, Grind bones for bread like Fee-faw-fum! And drink from skulls as Byron did!