This animal (says the learned Zoologist, Mr. Pennant) was esteemed a delicacy by the antients, and is eaten, at present, by the Italians; Rondelius gives us two receipts for the dressing, which may be continued to this day; Athenæus also leaves us the method of making an antique cuttle-fish sausage; and we learn from Aristotle, that those animals are in the highest perfection when pregnant.
Attend wives and widows, and daughters, dear creatures,
To hear of a fish caught off Anglesea Isle,
Be silent, compose all your muscles and features,
Friends and neighbours around who love time to beguile;
Saint Peter took most sorts of fish in his net, sir,
Like so many hooks were his fingers and toes,
But Peter ne’er caught, I wou’d lay any bet, sir,
A fish with one eye, bushy tail, and red nose.
This fish lately found, from the top to the bottom,
Of inches, then measur’d a full half a score,
Girls swallow’d ’em faster than fishermen got ’em,
Yet ne’er were so cloy’d, but they still long’d for more;
’Tis just at low water when crabs are seen crawling,
For shelter beneath heavy tang-cover’d stones,
That girls from all quarters come eagerly calling
For fish full of gristle, hard roes, and no bones.
At the gills of this creature you’ll see them all peeping,
And if as sick damsels they’re livid and pale,
They’ll tell you these fish are no better for keeping,
Like lobsters long caught, they’ve no spring in the tail;
But when fresh and frisky, maids, trout-like, will tickle ’em,
Till in the net of Dame Nature they go,
Where shou’d wanton women e’er take ’em and pickle ’em,
The curing’s a pain and expence we all know.
Two fam’d learned sages, both birds of a feather,
This odd fish to see, left their pigs, plants, and land,
And tho’ they both clubb’d their wise noddles together,
The devil a one did the fish understand;
Yes, M—by and B—s, who so solemn and grave is,
Knew not, till PAT told ’em, from whence the fish came,
’Tis Ireland that boasts it, their sea-rara avis,
Caught wild in a net, and by stroking made tame.
Star-gazing H—l, a knowing old fellow,
As e’er peep’d at bodies above or below,
This man o’-the moon, by strong stingo made mellow,
Thro’ glass microscopic can miracles show;
He call’d it a satellite of Venus centre,
That — had seen by command of the —,
And that Mercury into its system would enter,
If e’er it were station’d in Saturn’s foul ring.
The B— of King’s place, call’d old wicked-eye’d W—,
Who lives upon gudgeons, young ling, and crimp’d cod,
When she saw these odd fish, she took hold of their fins, sir,
And stole off, unnotic’d, two dozen and odd;
For the fish-kettle Windsor had long in possession,
In spite of two leaks, as TARS say, fore and aft,
I’m sure ’twou’d have held, (pray excuse my digression)
The whole of Saint Peter’s miraculous draft.
The news of this fish reach’d —, a bishop,
His chaplain, obedient, was posted away,
And brought from the ferry this odd-looking fish up,
Bound down with a cord in a butcher’s big tray;
When the female fat cooky, of flesh and blood frail, sir,
Took hold of its gills to the — surprise,
It, Kangaroo like, took a spring from its tail, sir,
And stuck itself fast ’twixt the cooky’s round thighs.
Away, in a fright, flew the — and ladies,
The folks in the kitchen were put to the rout,
“’Tis the devil,” said —, “and as preaching your trade is,
“Do, good Mister Chaplin, exorcise the scout;”
Said the Chaplin, “Indeed —, begging your pardon,
“Such doctrine is rash, and to danger may tend,
“For why would your — wish to bear hard on on
“The devil, who always has been our best friend!”
Lord —, large man, whom the women well know, sir,
Examin’d this fish from the root to the snout,
With both hands was seen to take hold of it so, sir,
To keep it from hopping and skipping about;
“Faith it is a large fish,” said the — in lewd plight, sir,
“I ne’er in my life saw its fellow before,
“Pull out,” said a friend, “all the ladies’ delight, sir,”
He did, and exhibited two inches more.
Girls, take my advice; let this odd fish before you
Be first skinn’d alive, and then dress’d to your taste,
As a standing dish dainty, dear souls, I implore you,
Take in all you can, but let none run to waste;
Old Jonah, who lay in the whale’s blubber’d belly,
Came out weak and feeble, went in strong and stout,
So into your bellies, this fish, need I tell ye,
As stoutly goes in, as he feebly slips out.