 | Songs, comic and satyrical |  |
The GRISKIN CLUB.
Of Griskins I sing, they're a feast for a King;
Kings, Homer says, dress'd their own Messes:
Achilles, the hot, always hung on the Pot,
Patroclus he garnish'd the dishes.
Kings, Homer says, dress'd their own Messes:
Achilles, the hot, always hung on the Pot,
Patroclus he garnish'd the dishes.
By the Poets of old, Apicius we're told
Was an Eater among the Antiques;
Tho' his Taste it was fine, yet like us could not dine,
For no Griskins were cook'd 'mong the Greeks.
Was an Eater among the Antiques;
Tho' his Taste it was fine, yet like us could not dine,
For no Griskins were cook'd 'mong the Greeks.
'Mong the Greeks? well I know, man, Apicius was Roman,
So no Critic's rod am a risking;
Not of Roman, nor Greek, but of Britons I speak,
And Britons who boast of their Griskin.
So no Critic's rod am a risking;
Not of Roman, nor Greek, but of Britons I speak,
And Britons who boast of their Griskin.
Trimalchio's Stuff, and the French Dartineuf,
Had almost good Eating abolish'd;
Sardanap'lus was great, and Lucullus could treat,
Yet never a Griskin demolish'd.
Had almost good Eating abolish'd;
Sardanap'lus was great, and Lucullus could treat,
Yet never a Griskin demolish'd.
One Emp'ror took pains, to make Ragouts of Brains,
But how, was those Dishes compounded?
It was done long ago, for at present I know,
Our Cooks would be greatly confounded.
But how, was those Dishes compounded?
It was done long ago, for at present I know,
Our Cooks would be greatly confounded.
Come! Lads, hark away, hunt the Bottle to-day,
At night, Boys, to Beauty high over;
Be this understood, may our Griskins prove good,
When, as Grisks, we leap into Love's Cover.
At night, Boys, to Beauty high over;
Be this understood, may our Griskins prove good,
When, as Grisks, we leap into Love's Cover.
| Songs, comic and satyrical | |