LINES OCCASIONED BY A Yorkshire Pye,[78] Sent as a Present from Sir William St. Quintin, to His Grace the Duke of Devonshire, at Bath, on Christmas-Day, 1762. Written by Mr. Derrick.
Reading edition
LINES OCCASIONED BY A Yorkshire Pye,[78] Sent as a Present from Sir William St. Quintin, to His Grace the Duke of Devonshire, at Bath, on Christmas-Day, 1762. Written by Mr. Derrick.
This curious effusion of Samuel Derrick's, who was Master of the Ceremonies at Bath at the time, I here reprint from a slip broad-sheet of the period in my own collection. The peer to whom this famous Yorkshire pie was sent, was William, fourth Duke of Devonshire, who died in 1764. Sir William St. Quintin, Bart., of Harpham, in the county of York, who died in 1771, was Member of Parliament for Thirsk, and High Sheriff in 1733. He married Rebecca, daughter of Sir John Thompson, Lord Mayor of London, and by her was father of the last baronet of the name of St. Quintin.
Were but my Muse inspir'd by Fludyer's[79] Taste, Or with Quin's Skill and lively Poignance grac'd; Th' Apician Muse, who bade Lucullus treat, And taught the gay Mark Anthony to eat; I'd venture then St. Quintin to commend, Whose faithful Memory ne'er forgets his Friend; Of placid Temper, and of gen'rous Blood, Whose only Vanity is doing Good; Whose open Looks imply an honest Heart, Courtly in Manners, yet unspoil'd by Art; The Emblem of whose liberal Soul I see In yonder pile of Hospitality; An Edifice for Cavendish to view, All English Fabric, and that Fabric true. Such plenteous Sights were known in Times of old, When Christmas by th' expiring Year was told; Long e'er our hardy Sires, un-nerv'd by Sloth, Had dwindled down into a Pigmy Growth. Within this Pile Varieties unite, To please at once the Taste, the Smell, the Sight. Robb'd of his vivid Green, and glossy Dyes, His golden Plumage, and his Scarlet Eyes, Here rests the Attic Pheasant,[80]—never more, Narcissus like, his Image to adore; Here lies the Turkey,[81] who with redd'ning Pride Once all the Farmer's feather'd Brood defy'd; True Emblem of Bæotia, whence he came, A noisy Blockhead, emulous of Fame. The wheeling Plover, and the timid Hare, Here mix;—the generous Ox bestows a Share— His Tongue—at jovial Tables always found; And Indian Spice enriches the Compound; The rare Compound! where various Parts conspire To form one Mass, which all who taste admire. Thus out of Chaos did the World first rise, And from Confusion sprung th' illumin'd Skies. Life's Pleasures on Variety depend, Her various Views make Hope so much our Friend. Thus while the Bard by Avon's winding Stream Unfolded to the Naiadès his Theme, While from the humid Rocks, and cavern'd Hills, He mark'd them, guiding the salubrious Rills To Bladud's Baths, where rosey Health presides, Shedding her Influence o'er the steaming Tides; Wondering he saw Britannia's Genius nigh, Aiding the Nymphs, and blessing their Supply. If near my Springs, she cry'd, you chance to view My Son, to Honour and to Virtue true; My fav'rite Devonshire, of antient Line, Where Loyalty and Truth united shine, The faithful Guardian of his Country's Fate, The Friend of Freedom and the British State, Exert the Panacea of your Art, Hygeia fair, your sovereign Powers impart; Unlock the sacred Treasures of your Store, And give the Patriot to my Arms once more; Esteem'd in Public, as in Private lov'd, And ev'n by Foes unwillingly approv'd.