'LL tell you a story that 's not in Tom Moore:-
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door:

So he call'd upon Lucy-'twas just ten o'clock-
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock

II.

Now, a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at,
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat:
So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more
Had question'd the stranger and answer'd the door.

III.

The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe;
For the moment will come when such comers must go :
So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd-poor innocent thing--
"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."

"The Cook's Oracle."

A RECIPE FOR CIVILISATION.

THE following Poem-is from the Pen of DOCTOR KITCHENER ! -the most heterogeneous of Authors, but at the same time-in the Sporting Latin of Mr Egan,—a real Homo-genius, or a Genius of a Man! in the Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual, boils over! and makes it seem written, as he describes himself (see The Cook's Oracle)—with the Spit in one hand!—and the FryingPan in the other, -While in the style of the rhymes it is Hudibrastic,- -as if in the ingredients of Versification, he had been assisted by his BUTLER !

As a Head Cook, Optician-Physician, Music Master-Domestic Economist and Death-bed Attorney!-I have celebrated The Author elsewhere with approbation :--And cannot now place him upon the Table as a Poet,- -without still being his LAUDER, a phrase which those persons whose course of classical reading recalls the INFAMOUS FORGERY on The Immortal Bard of Avon! - will find easy to understand.

URELY, those sages err who teach

That man is known from brutes by speech,

Which hardly severs man from woman,
But not th' inhuman from the human,-
Or else might parrots claim affinity,
And dogs be doctors by latinity,-
Not t' insist, (as might be shown,)
That beasts have gibberish of their own,
Which once was no dead tongue, though we
Since Esop's days have lost the key;

Nor yet to hint dumb men,-and, still, not
Beasts that could gossip though they will not,
But play at dummy like the monkeys,
For fear mankind should make them flunkies.
Neither can man be known by feature
Or form, because so like a creature,
That some grave men could never shape
Which is the aped and which the ape,
Nor by his gait, nor by his height,
Nor yet because he 's black or white,
But rational,for so we call
The only COOKING ANIMAL !

But Equus brutum est, which means,
If a horse had sense he'd boil his beans,
Nay, no one but a horse would forage
On naked oats instead of porridge,

Which proves, if brutes and Scotchmen vary,
The difference is culinary.

Further, as man is known by feeding

From brutes, so men from men, in breeding,

Are still distinguish'd as they eat,

And raw in manner 's raw in meat,-
Look at the polish'd nations, hight
The civilised--the most polite

Is that which bears the praise of nations
For dressing eggs two hundred fashions,
Whereas, at savage feeders look,

The less refined the less they cook;
From Tartar grooms that merely straddle
Across a steak and warm their saddle,
Down to the Abyssinian squaw,
That bolts her chops and collops raw,
And, like a wild beast, cares as little
To dress her person as her victual,—