HYMN.

Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction and Industry.

CHORUS.

Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound
  Which speaks the Great Redeemer’s praise,
His mercies every where abound,
  Let all their grateful voices raise.

BOYS.

The friendless child, to manhood grown,
  Will ne’er forget your parent care;
You’ve made each youthful heart your own,
  Oh! then accept our humble prayer.

GIRLS.

For ever be that bounty praised,
  Which every comfort doth impart;
In tears of joy the song is raised
  From minstrels of the glowing heart.

CHORUS.

Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power! 
  In notes of thankfulness be given;
Sure solace in affliction’s hour! 
  Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven. 
                     Hallelujah!  Amen.

REFLECTIONS OF A POET,

ON GOING TO A GREAT DINNER.

Great epoch in the history of bards! 
  Important day to those who woo the nine;
Better than fame are visitation-cards,
  And heaven on earth at a great house to dine.

O cruel memory! do not conjure up
  The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook;
Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup,
  And on her virtues begg’d I’d write a book.

For her dear sake I braved the letter’d fates,
  And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm’d;
“The Accomplish’d Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:” 
  Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d——­d.

D—­n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves;
  Malicious fancy makes them so expert,
They write ’bout dinners, who ne’er dine themselves,
  And boast of linen, who ne’er had a shirt.

Rest, goddess, from all broils!  I bless thy name,
  Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on! 
I’d give thee all I have, my slice of fame,
  If thou, fat shade! could’st give one slice of mutton.

Yet hold—­ten minutes more, and I am bless’d;
  Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly: 
Soon shall I put my hunger to the test,
  And all the host of miseries defy.

Thrice is he arm’d, who hath his dinner first,
  For well-fed valour always fights the best;
And though he may of over-eating burst,
  His life is happy, and his death is just.

To-day I dine—­not on my usual fare;
  Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine;
Not in the park upon a dish of air: 
  But on true eatables, and rosy wine.

Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw,
  To teach the empty stomach how to fill,
To pour red port adown the parched craw;
  Without that dread dessert—­to pay the bill.

I’m off—­methinks I smell the long-lost savour;
  Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet: 
Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour,
  Once in my life as much as I can eat!