The Glutton
A Tale
Unknown Author
A wicked corm'rant who, each meal,
Cou'd eat six pounds of beef or veal,
One ev'ning in a tavern larder,
O which he was a nice regarder,
Fix'd on a bouncing cod his eyes,
Might half a score at least suffice:
Here, cook, let this be ready made
What all, Sir! All, except the head.
It quickly comes in butter swimming
And, troth, he gave it hearty trimming.
But e'er the dish was wholly clean'd,
He puft'd, and swell'd, and backward lean'd.
The waiters though him surely dying,
And send for a physician flying,
He comes, and orders clysters plenty,
Hoping by these his cask to empty;
The cafe, howe'er, seem'd desp'rate still,
So all advis'd - to make his will.
And shall I call a priest? No, lad,
I hope my cafe is not so bad,
And yet I'm somewhat out of breath,
Well- if I needs must yield to death,
To die quite satify'd I'd with,
So - bring the remnant of my fish
The London Magazine, and Monthly Chronologer. Ireland, Edward Ekshaw, 1741.
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