The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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INVITATION TO DINNER,
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
379
INVITATION TO DINNER,
ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.
September, 1818.
Some think we bards have nothing real;
That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,—
(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)—
For instance, that we have, instead
Of vulgar chops, and stews, and hashes,
First course—a Phœnix, at the head,
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heav'n's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;
And nightingales, berhymed to death—
Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.
That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,—
(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)—
For instance, that we have, instead
Of vulgar chops, and stews, and hashes,
First course—a Phœnix, at the head,
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heav'n's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;
380
Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.
Such fare may suit those bards, who're able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought
Where Bromham rears its ancient steeple—
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, season'd by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,
'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought
Where Bromham rears its ancient steeple—
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, season'd by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,
'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |