Immortal bards, view here your wit, The labours of your quill, To singe the fowl upon the spit Condemned by Master Gill.
My humble verse that fate shall meet, Nor shall I take it ill; But grant, ye gods! that I may eat That fowl, when drest by Gill.
These are your true poetic fires That drest this savoury grill; Even while I eat the Muse inspires, And tunes my voice to Gill.
When Chloe strikes the vocal lyre, Sweet Lydian measures thrill; But I the gridiron more admire, When tuned by Master Gill.
'Come, take my sage of ancient use,' Cries learned Doctor Hill; 'But what's the sage without the goose?' Replies my Master Gill.
He who would fortify his mind, His belly first should fill; Roast beef 'gainst terrors best you'll find; 'The Greeks knew this,' says Gill.
Your spirits and your blood to stir, Old Galen gives a pill; But I the forced-meat ball prefer, Prepared by Master Gill.
COMFORTS OF BATH. X.