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 OME, shut up your Blackstone, and sparkle again
 * The leader and light of our classical revels;

While statues and cases bewilder your brain,
 * No wonder you’re vexed and beset with blue devils:

But a change in your diet will banish the blues;
 * Then come, my old chum, to our banquet sublime;

Our wine shall be caught from the lips of the Muse,
 * And each plate and tureen shall be hallowed in rhyme.

Scott, from old Albin, shall furnish the dishes
 * With wild-fowl and ven’son that none can surpass;

And Mitchill, who sung the amours of the fishes,
 * Shall fetch his most exquisite tomcod and bass.

Leigh Hunt shall select, at his Hampstead Parnassus,
 * Fine greens, from the hot-bed, the table to cheer;

And Wordsworth shall bring us whole bowls of molasses
 * Diluted with water from sweet Windermere.

To rouse the dull fancy and give us an appetite,
 * Black wormwood bitters Lord Byron shall bear,

And Montgomery bring (to consumptives a happy sight)
 * Tepid soup-meagre and “l’eau capillaire;”