Which proves, if brutes and Scotchmen vary, The difference is culinary.

Further, as man is known by feeding

From brutes, so men from men, in breeding
Are still distinguished as they eat,
And raw in manners, raw in meat,—
Look at the polished nations, hight
The civilized-the most polite

Is that which bears the praise of nations
For dressing eggs two hundred fashions;
Whereas, at savage feeders look,—
The less refined the less they cook;
From Tartar grooms that merely straddle
Across a steak and warm their saddle,
Down to the Abyssinian squaw,
That bolts her chops and collops raw,
And, like a wild beast, cares as little
To dress her person as her victual,-
For gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets,
Are beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets,
And not by shamble bodies put on,

But those who roast and boil their mutton;
So Eve and Adam wore no dresses
Because they lived on water-cresses,
And till they learned to cook their crudities,
Went blind as beetles to their nudities.
For niceness comes from th' inner side,
(As an ox is drest before his hide,)
And when the entrail loathes vulgarity
The outward man will soon cull rarity,
For 'tis th' effect of what we eat
To make a man look like his meat,
As insects show their food's complexions;
Thus fopling clothes are like confections.
But who, to feed a jaunty coxcomb,
Would have an Abyssinian ox come?
Or serve a dish of fricassees,

To clodpoles in a coat of frize?

Whereas a black would call for buffalo

Alive-and, no doubt, eat the offal too.
Now, (this premised,) it follows then
That certain culinary men

Should first go forth with pans and spits
To bring the heathens to their wits,
(For all wise Scotchmen of our century
Know that first steps are alimentary ;

And, as we have proved, flesh pots and saucepans
Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans ;)
But Bunyan-erred to think the near gate
To take man's soul, was battering Ear gate,
When reason should have worked her course
As men of war do-when their force
Can't take a town by open courage,
They steal an entry with its forage.
What reverend bishop, for example,
Could preach horned Apis from his temple?
Whereas a cook would soon unseat him,
And make his own church-wardens eat him.
Not Irving could convert those vermin
The Anthropophages, by a sermon;
Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice,
Would "take a shin of beef and spice,"
And raise them such a savoury smother,
No negro would devour his brother,
But turn his stomach round as loth
As Persians, to the old black broth,—
For knowledge oftenest makes an entry,
As well as true love, thro' the pantry,
Where beaux that came at first for feeding
Grow gallant men and get good breeding ;—
Exempli gratia-in the West,
Ship-traders say there swims a nest

Lined with black natives, like a rookery,
But coarse as carrion crows at cookery.-
This race, though now called O. Y. E.† men,
(To show they are more than A. B. C. men,)

*Cook to the late Sir John Banks.

+ [Owhyee.]

Was once so ignorant of our knacks
They laid their mats upon their backs,
And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon
On trees that baked them in the sunshine.
As for their bodies, they were coated,
(For painted things are so denoted ;)
But, the naked truth is, stark primevals,
That said their prayers to timber devils,
Allowed polygamy-dwelt in wig-wams-
And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams.-
And why?-because their savage nook
Had ne'er been visited by Cook,-
And so they fared till our great chief,
Brought them, not Methodists, but beef
In tubs, and taught them how to live,
Knowing it was too soon to give,
Just then, a homily on their sins,
(For cooking ends ere grace begins,)
Or hand his tracts to the untractable
Till they could keep a more exact table—
For nature has her proper courses,
And wild men must be backed like horses,
Which, jockeys know, are never fit
For riding till they've had a bit

I' the mouth; but then, with proper tackle,
You may trot them to a tabernacle.
Ergo (I say) he first made changes
In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges,
And taught the king's cook, by convincing
Process, that chewing was not mincing,
And in her black fist thrust a bundle
Of tracts abridged from Glasse and Rundell,
Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits,
She saw the spareness of her habits,

And round her loins put on a striped
Towel, where fingers might be wiped,

And then her breast clothed like her ribs,
(For aprons lead of course to bibs,)
And, by the time she had got a meat-

Screen, veiled her back, too, from the heat-
As for her gravies and her sauces,

(Tho' they reformed the royal fauces,)
Her forcemeats and ragouts,-I praise not,
Because the legend further says not,
Except, she kept each Christian high-day,
And once upon a fat good Fry-day
Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan,
That turned the spit, to chop up Dagon !—

"PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE.”

I.

I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore:Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door: So he called upon Lucy-'twas just ten o'clockLike a spruce single man, with a smart double knock.

II.

Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at,
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat :
So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more
Had questioned the stranger and answered the
door.

III.

The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe: For the moment will come when such comers must

go;

So she kissed him, and whispered-poor innocent

thing

"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."

THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.

"Alas! what perils do environ

That man who meddles with a siren!"

HUDIBRAS.

ON Margate beach, where the sick one roams,

And the sentimental reads;

Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comesLike the ocean-to cast her weeds;

Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships,-
Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells,-
And the Chandler for watery dips;—

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,
As lovely and fair as sin!

But woe, deep water and woe to him,
That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,
And her locks are golden and loose:
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,
To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And, all day long, she combeth them well,
With a sea-shark's prickly jaw;

And her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell,
The fairest that man e'er saw !

And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be,
Hath planted his seat by her side;
"Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea,
To make thee so watch the tide ?

She turned about with her pearly brows,
And clasped him by the hand;

"Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house
On the golden Goodwin Sand."