There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore Thy _Patties_--thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who call'd thee "_Kitchen Addison_"--for why? Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, "_Teaching us how to live and how to die_!" There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry-- There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on His sine _Quay_ non,-- There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and death,-- Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre-- "And yet, (as thou would'st add,) the French have seen A Marshall _Tureen_"! VII. Great was thy Evening Cluster!--often grac'd With Dollond--Burgess--and Sir Humphry Davy! 'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to Taste,-- There Colborn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs--and Accum analyzed a gravy. Colman--the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said Came there,--and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, (His claim to letters)--Kater, too, the Moon's Crony,--and Graham, lofty on balloons,-- There Croly stalk'd with holy humor heated, Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed-- And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,-- Madame Valbreque thrice 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.