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A RECIPE-FOR CIVILIZATION.

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Whereas a cook would soon unseat him,
And make his own churchwardens eat him.
Not Irving could convert those vermin
Th' Anthropophages, by a sermon;
Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice,
Would "take a shin of beef and spice,'
And raise them such a savory smother,
No negro would devour his brother,
But turn his stomach round as loth
As Persians, to the old black broth-
For knowledge oftenest makes an entry,
As well as true love, thro' the pantry,
Where beaux that came at first for feeding
Grow gallant men and get good breeding;-
Exempli gratia-in the West,

Ship-traders say there swims a nest
Lined with black natives, like a rookery,
But coarse as carrion crows at cookery.—
This race, though now called O. Y. E. men,
(To show they are more than A. B. C. men,)
Was once so ignorant of our knacks
They laid their mats upon their backs,
And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon
On trees that baked them in the sunshine.
As for their bodies, they were coated,
(For painted things are so denoted ;)
But, the naked truth is stark primevals,
That said their prayers to timber devils,
Allowed polygamy-dwelt in wig-wams—
And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams.-
And why?—because their savage nook

*Cook to the late Sir John Banks.

Had ne'er been visited by Cook—
And so they fared till our great chief,
Brought them, not Methodists, but beef
In tubs-and taught them how to live,
Knowing it was too soon to give,
Just then, a homily on their sins,
(For cooking ends ere grace begins,)
Or hand his tracts to the untractable
Till they could keep a more exact table—
For nature has her proper courses,
And wild men must be backed like horses,
Which, jockeys know, are never fit

For riding till they've had a bit

I' the mouth; but then, with proper tackle,
You may trot them to a tabernacle,

Ergo (I say) he first made changes
In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges,
And taught the king's cook, by convincing
Process, that chewing was not mincing,
And in her black fist thrust a bundle

Of tracts abridged from Glasse and Rundell,
Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits,
She saw the spareness of her habits,

And round her loins put on a striped

Towel, where fingers might be wiped,

And then her breast clothed like her ribs,
(For aprons lead of course to bibs,)

And, by the time she had got a meat-
Screen, veiled her back, too, from the heat-
As for her gravies and her sauces,
(Tho' they reformed the royal fauces,)
Her forcemeats and ragouts-I praise not,
Because the legend further says not,

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Except, she kept each Christian high-day,
And once upon a fat good Fry-day
Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan,
That turned the spit, to chop up Dagon!-

LINES

TO A FRIEND AT COBHAM.

'Tis pleasant, when we've absent friends,
Sometimes to hob and nob 'em
With Memory's glass-at such a pass
Remember me at Cobham !

Have pigs you will, and sometimes kill,
But if you sigh and sob 'em,

And cannot eat your home-grown meat,
Remember me at Cobham!

Of hen and cock, you'll have a stock,
And death will oft unthrob 'em-
A country chick is good to pick-

Remember me at Cobham!

'll lease,

Some orchard trees of course
course you
And boys will sometimes rob 'em,
A friend (you know) before a foe-
Remember me at Cobham!

You'll sometimes have wax-lighted rooms,
And friends of course to mob 'em,
Should you be short of such a sort,
Remember me at Cobham!

1

A GOOD DIRECTION.

A CERTAIN gentleman, whose yellow cheek
Proclaimed he had not been in living quite
An Anchorite-

Indeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day;
At last, by friends' advice, was led to seek
A surgeon of great note-named Aberfeldie.

A very famous Author upon Diet,

Who, better starred than Alchemists of old,
By dint of turning mercury to gold,
Had settled at his country house in quiet.

Our Patient, after some impatient rambles
Thro' Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brambles,
At last, to make inquiry had the nous—
'Here, my good man,
Just tell me if you can,

Pray which is Mr. Aberfeldie's house ?”
The man thus stopped-perusing for a while
The yellow visage of the man of bile,
At last made answer, with a broadish grin:
"Why, turn to right—and left and right agin,
The road's direct-you cannot fail to go it."

"But stop! my worthy fellow !-one word more—
From other houses how am I to know it!"

'How!-why you'll see blue pillars at the door!"

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SONNET.

Allegory-A moral vehicle.-DICTIONARY.

I HAD a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,
Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt,
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;
Although he sometimes kicked, and shied aslant.
I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment,
With yellow body, and the wheels of red,
Because 't was only used for one employment,
Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.

I had a wife, her nickname was Delight;

A son called Frolic, who was never still: Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright? Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill, Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite, And Pleasure fell a splitter on Paine's Hill!

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WITH A FLASK OF RHINE WATER.

THE old Catholic City was still

In the Minster the vespers were sung,

And, re-echoed in cadences shrill,

The last call of the trumpet had rung; While across the broad stream of the Rhine, The full Moon cast a silvery zone;

And, methought, as I gazed on its shine,

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Surely, that is the Eau de Cologne."

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