The Poetry Corner

Invitation To Dinner. Addressed To Lord Lansdowne.

By Thomas Moore

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!