The Griskin Club

OF Griskins I sing,
They're a feast for a King;
Kings, Homer says, dress'd their own Messes:
Achilles, the hot,
Always hung on the Pot,
Patroclus he garnish'd the Dishes.

By the Poets of old,
Apicius we're told
Was an Eater among the Antiques;
Tho' his Taste it was fine,
Yet like us cou'd not dine,
For no Griskins were cook'd 'mong the Greeks.

'Mong the Greeks? well I know, man,
Apicius was Roman,
So no Critic's rod am I risking;
Not of Roman, nor Greek,
But of Britons I speak,
And Britons who boast of their Griskin.

Trimalchio's Stuff,
And the French Dartineuf,
Had almost good Eating abolish'd;
Sardanap'lus was great,
And Lucullus cou'd treat,
Yet never a Griskin demolish'd.

One Emp'ror took pains
To make Ragouts of Brains,
But how were those Dishes compounded?
It was done long ago,
For at present I know,
Our Cooks wou'd be greatly confounded.

Come! Lads, hark away,
Hunt the Bottle To-day,
At Night, Boys, to Beauty high over;
Be this understood,
May our Griskins prove good,
When, as Grisks, we leap into Love's Cover.