September, 1818. Some Think We Bards Have Nothing Real; That Poets Live Among The Stars So, Their Very Dinners Are Ideal,-- (And, Heaven Knows, Too Oft They Are So,)-- For Instance, That We Have, Instead Of Vulgar Chops And Stews And Hashes, First Course--A Phoenix, At The Head. Done In Its Own Celestial Ashes; At Foot, A Cygnet Which Kept Singing All The Time Its Neck Was Wringing. Side Dishes, Thus--Minerva'S Owl, Or Any Such Like Learned Fowl: Doves, Such As Heaven'S Poulterer Gets, When Cupid Shoots His Mother'S Pets. Larks Stewed In Morning'S Roseate Breath, Or Roasted By A Sunbeam'S Splendor; And Nightingales, Berhymed To Death-- Like Young Pigs Whipt To Make Them Tender. Such Fare May Suit Those Bards, Who Are Able To Banquet At Duke Humphrey'S Table; But As For Me, Who've Long Been Taught To Eat And Drink Like Other People; And Can Put Up With Mutton, Bought Where Bromham[1] Rears Its Ancient Steeple-- If Lansdowne Will Consent To Share My Humble Feast, Tho' Rude The Fare, Yet, Seasoned By That Salt He Brings From Attica'S Salinest Springs, 'Twill Turn To Dainties;--While The Cup, Beneath His Influence Brightening Up, Like That Of Baucis, Touched By Jove, Will Sparkle Fit For Gods Above!