Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page—­
  Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein—­
  So—­in a kitchen—­would have talk’d Montaigne,
That merry Gascon—­humorist, and sage! 
Let slender minds with single themes engage,
  Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,—­
Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,—­or
  Hume on “Twice three make four,”
Or Lovelass upon Wills,—­Thou goest on
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson! 
  Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope,
Stuff’d with a brilliant medley of odd bits,
  And ever shifting on from change to change,
Saucepans—­old Songs—­Pills—­Spectacles—­and Spits! 
  Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range! 
Thy grasp a miracle!—­till I recall
Th’ indubitable cause of thy variety—­
Thou art, of course, th’ Epitome of all
That spying—­frying—­singing—­mix’d Society
Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet
Welch Rabbits—­and thyself—­in Warren Street!

V.

Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni,
Where learned visitors discoursed—­and fed? 
        There came Belzoni,
Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead—­
    And gentle Poki—­and that Royal Pair,
    Of whom thou didst declare—­
“Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read—­
They were—­what Sandwiches should be—­half bred”! 
There fam’d M’Adam from his manual toil
Relax’d—­and freely own’d he took thy hints
    On “making Broth with Flints”—­
There Parry came, and show’d thee polar oil
For melted butter—­Combe with his medullary
      Notions about the Skullery,
And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil—­
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! 
      Who used to swear thy book
        Would really look
    A Delphic “Oracle,” if laid on Delf—­
There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss’d
His own—­and thy own—­“Magazine of Taste”—­
      There Wilberforce the Just
Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac’d
  Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks,
    That “do not break their yolks”—­
Which huff’d him home, in grave disgust and haste!

VI.

  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”!