The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop ... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare |
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TO ANTHONY DICKINS ESQ.
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 | The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop |  |
112
TO ANTHONY DICKINS ESQ.
IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER.
JUNE 5, 1777.
Before your friendly note I got,
Two Abchurch hams were in the pot:—
So much I heard upon the spot;—
And people deeper in the plot,
Dropt hints (I heard not clearly what)
Of fish-pans, sauce, and water hot,
Which put together, spelt turbot;
For which the parish pays the shot.
Two Abchurch hams were in the pot:—
So much I heard upon the spot;—
And people deeper in the plot,
Dropt hints (I heard not clearly what)
Of fish-pans, sauce, and water hot,
Which put together, spelt turbot;
For which the parish pays the shot.
But viands move me not a jot;
To Lincoln's Inn, at four, I'd trot,
But that my promise bids me not,
—To break such promise would (God wot)
Be in my scutcheon a foul blot:—
The more unlucky is my lot.
To Lincoln's Inn, at four, I'd trot,
113
—To break such promise would (God wot)
Be in my scutcheon a foul blot:—
The more unlucky is my lot.
Yet must I pass for knave or sot,
If your kind summons be forgot:
Some fitter day I'll soon allot,
At your and Madam's side to squat,
Enjoy her pie, and Sal's Gavot.—
—Else may each Muse in grove or grot
Despise me, more than Wilkes a Scot;
More than a lion, a marmot!
May cookmaids hoot me for a cot!
May Dutchmen call me Hottentot!
May all my rhymes on dunghils rot!
Still may I sail, without pilot,
On board the Disappointment Yatch;
Meagre and mad as Don Quixote,
My wealth, a cypher and a dot;
May Tyburn's self, in the upshot,
String for my neck a running knot!
And my good name, outstink schalot!
If your kind summons be forgot:
Some fitter day I'll soon allot,
At your and Madam's side to squat,
Enjoy her pie, and Sal's Gavot.—
—Else may each Muse in grove or grot
Despise me, more than Wilkes a Scot;
More than a lion, a marmot!
May cookmaids hoot me for a cot!
May Dutchmen call me Hottentot!
May all my rhymes on dunghils rot!
Still may I sail, without pilot,
On board the Disappointment Yatch;
Meagre and mad as Don Quixote,
114
May Tyburn's self, in the upshot,
String for my neck a running knot!
And my good name, outstink schalot!
| The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop | |