Classic Poem

Ingenious Cook of Drury hear,
And lend to friendly truth an ear:
We English stomachs love plain food;
Ven'son, twice hash'd , is seldom good.
Tho' dish'd with foreign art compleat,
We can't, with real pleasure, eat;
What tho' Italia's pow'rs combine,
To join their sauce with Gallic wine;
Though madam Opera's skill and care
Has furnish'd out the flimsy fare;
'Twill never do — think not we jest —
We like plain victuals, plainly dress'd:
And sure where Shakespeare sits in state,
And two attendant Muses wait,
We there might hope our native boast,
Old English beef might rule the roast.

Let flippant Opera keep her place,
Nor dare, 'fore Shakespeare, shew her face;
Indignant he beholds the scene,
And thinks on Bess's glorious reign.

See! fair Thalia now appears
In guise unusual, dew'd with tears;
Melpomene's majestic frown,
Condemns the treat — the Cook — the Town:
The Cook ungrateful, both declare,
Who thus prefers the tinsel Fair,
To them, who gave him genius, pow'r,
And bless'd with wit his natal hour.
Then, master Cook, no more prophane
The larder of thy Drury Lane
With foreign mixtures, ragout meat,
But with nutritious viands treat,
And then we'll gladly come and eat.