The press, or literary chit-chat A Satire [by J. H. Reynolds] |
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 | The press, or literary chit-chat |  |
80
XIII.
Wond'ring, I cry, what sweets composeThe sav'ry gales that meet my nose?
Lo! twenty cooks with each in hand
A rolling-pin's right noble wand;
As many scullions bearing dishes
Of soup, and flesh, and fowl, and fishes;
Between them march'd a stately dame,
And Rundell was the fair one's name.
A book she carried, and she oft
Cast up beseeching looks aloft,
Whilst I could hear her in a flurry
At times pronounce the name of Murray,
Or trembling heave a heart-wrung sigh,
And some such word as chancery.
She pass'd king Gog with curtesy low,
Which was return'd with royal bow,
Almost as graceful as the bends
With which king George salutes his friends,
And thus she spoke—“Most sapient Gog,
Make me provider of your prog,
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Your neighbour the Tartarean Khan
Was e'er regaled with carrion tender
Or milk that mares when brooding render.”
The monarch thus. “Our royal mind
To grant your boon is much inclined,
Only we fear that Eldon's Earl
May take it in his head to whirl
Our dinner hence without compunction
By what he nicknames an injunction;
But when you've settled 'bout your books
We'll dub you princess of our cooks.”
The sav'ry pageant then pass'd on,
Whilst many a hungry glance was thrown
On reeking mess and flesh-clad bone.
| The press, or literary chit-chat | |