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 EAR Simon! Prince of pastry-cooks,
 * Oysters, and ham, and cold neat’s tongue,

Pupil of Mitchill’s cookery-books,
 * And bosom friend of old and young!

Sure from some higher, brighter sphere
 * In showers of gravy thou wert hurled,

To aid our routs and parties here,
 * And grace the fashionable world!

Taught by thy art, we closely follow
 * And ape the English lords and misses;

For music, we’ve the Black Apollo,
 * And Mrs. Poppleton42 for kisses.

We borrow all the rest, you know,
 * Our glass from Christie43 for the time,

Plate from our friends to make a show,
 * And cash, to pay small bills from Prime.

What though old Squaretoes will not bless thee—
 * He fears your power and dreads your bill;

Mother and her dear girls caress thee,
 * And pat thy cheek, and praise thee still.