Out on those bards who dare profess to dine
On suet pudding, or on smoky chine
To holding converse with the immortal Nine.
Out on those bards, sad slaves to beer & wine,
Poor mongrel offspring of Apollo’s line,
Whom Bacchus only can induce to shine.
Degen’rate bards, unscorch’d by sacred fire,
Deaf to electric fancy’s tuneful lyre,
Form’d but to wallow in dull earthly mire.
Fit knights to represent& some guzzling shire;
Oh may their works ne’er find a single buyer
Worthless of bays* — give them a crown of briar.
Dull as the beetle, silly as the puffin,
Worthy of bastinado, kicks, and cuffing,
The bard who scorns thrice-honour’d tea & muffin
Who spurns the tea-board, for the board of stuffing.
Yet such there are alas! & he the chief,
Whose name if mention’d might confound belief;
Who to our Tea-chest grudges one poor leaf.
He pays his court to pudding, beer & beef,
And suffers hunger like a sly-boot thief
To sob our lyric harvest of its sheaf.
But hark, I hear the trembling culprit speak,
Whilst fear transplants the roses from his cheek,
And knits in ruffl’d wrath his brow so sleek
That self-same brow, whilom so mild and meek,
Now fires with anger hot as cambrian leek,
Whilst his vex’d thoughts thus for swift utt’rance seek.
What tho’ ye lash me in wheel-barrow lays
In measure rumb’ling loud as brewer’s drays,
I scorn your scoffs, I scorn each taunting phrase.
Still on soft suet will I fondly gaze,
And this my motto be tho’ all my days,
One ounce of puddings worth a pound of praise!