Song LXXXVII. 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.