The Oxford Sausage, a book of poetry

I was delighted to receive a small package from a reader of this blog. It was a copy of a book first published in 1764. They thought I’d be interested on account of its name, The Oxford Sausage, or Select Poetical Pieces written by the most celebrated wits of the University of Oxford. And interested I was, and most grateful to have it drawn to my attention. I’d never heard of it before. In fact I was rather surprised to find that something as unassuming as a sausage could be the inspiration for an anthology of verse. But that’s what happened when the then Professor of Poetry and friend of Dr Johnson, Thomas Wharton, (1728 – 1790) compiled this collection. His aim was, he writes, ‘to collect poems of humour and burlesque,’ and to present them ‘highly seasoned and happily blended’ under the name of The Oxford Sausage, a popular local culinary delight of the time.

The book was so successful that there were several editions printed. The other lot were jealous enough to publish their own collection along similar lines, called, ‘The Cambridge Tart’. The verses within are a satirical send up of an era in the University’s history not known for its intellectual rigour, a period when entry to the place was based solely on your income, religion and contacts. Undergraduates then were more likely to attend the alehouse or the latest race meeting than be seen in a lecture hall. Indeed Edward Gibbon who came to the University around this time declared that the fourteen months he spent at Magdalen College were the most idle and unprofitable he had ever known. But Wharton lived his whole adult life in Oxford, first as an undergraduate and then as a tutor at Trinity College and he clearly loved the city. And though some might find it dated, his book offers us a window into life here as it was at that time. The woodcuts by Thomas Bewick that accompany some of the editions are also splendid. And so I offer up some choice cuts from ‘The Oxford Sausage’ and hope that you will find something palatable for your consumption.

This engraving of Mrs Dorothy Spreadbury is the frontispiece to the book. She is credited with being the inventress of the oxford sausage made from veal and pork.

THE LOUNGER

I rise about nine, get breakfast by ten,

Blow a tune on my flute, or perhaps make a pen,

Read a play till eleven, or cock my lac’d hat;

Then step with my neighbours, till dinner, to chat.

Dinner over, to Tom’s, or to James’s  I go,

The news of the Town so impatient to know;

From the coffee house then to Tennis away,

And at five I post back to my college to pray:

I sup before eight, and secure from all duns,

Undauntedly march to the Mitre or Tuns;

Where in punch or good claret my sorrows I drown,

And toss off a bowl “To the best in the Town:”

At one in the morning I call what’s to pay,

Then home to my college I stagger away:

Thus I tope all the night, as I trifle all day.

*tope is to drink an excess of alcohol

*The Mitre and Tuns were drinking houses in Oxford, The Mitre until very recently.

THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT

When now, mature in classical knowledge,

The joyful Youth is sent to College;

His father comes, a Vicar plain,

At Oxford bred – in Anna’s reign,

And thus in form of humble suitor,

Bowing, accosts a reverend Tutor.

“Sir, I’m a Glo’stershire Divine,

“And this my eldest Son of nine;

“My wife’s ambition and my own

“Was that this child should wear a Gown:

“I’ll warrant that his good behaviour

“Will justify your future favour;

“And for his parts, to tell the truth,

“My son’s a very forward Youth;

“Has Horace all by heart – you’d wonder –

“And mouths out Homer’s Greek like thunder.

“If you’d examine – and admit him,

“A Scholarship would nicely fit him:

And so it goes on but (spoiler alert) despite getting his place and afterwards a fellowship he is not content. In those days, dons were not allowed to marry. So he chucks it all in for a church living, finds a wife, has children and a garden to tend. Still not satisfied, he wonders why on earth he ever gave up his easy life in college.

THE CELEBRATED SONG OF THE ALL SOULS MALLARD

Griffin, Bustard, Turkey, Capon,

Let other hungry mortals gape on;

And on their bones their stomach fall hard,

But let All Souls Men have their MALLARD.

This song, and there are many more verses, celebrates one of those strange Oxford traditions that occurs once every hundred years at All Souls College, Oxford. The story goes that when Archbishop Henry Chichele was looking for a location to build his college in 1437, it came to him in a dream that the place should be next to a church (it is, The University Church) and that he would be given a sign when digging the foundations. Sure enough, no sooner than the first spade been thrust into the soil, than a mallard, trapped under some debris, suddenly flew out, attempting to make his escape. The college staff, however were having none of it. They hunted the bird down, caught it and finding it looked plump, cooked and then ate it. We are not sure when but the event was immortalised in an extraordinary ritual where the college dons parade around the front quadrangle with flaming torches, carrying ‘Lord Mallard’, a man in a sedan chair holding a now wooden duck on a stick, and singing the Mallard song. It was last performed quite recently in 2001, so the next event will be 2101!

SONG

In Honour of the Celebration of the Boar’s Head, at Queen’s College, Oxford.

I sing not of Roman or Grecian mad games,

The Pythian, Olympic and other hard names;

You patience awhile, with submission I beg,

I strive but to honour the Feast of Coll. Reg.

      Derry down, down, down, derry down.

Stout Hercules labour’d, and look’d mighty big,

When he slew the half-starv’d Erymanthian Pig:

But we can relate such a strategem taken,

That the stoutest of Boars could not save his own Bacon.

Derry down down down derry down.

So dreadful this bristle-back’d foe did appear,

You’d have sworn he had got the wrong Pig by the ear,

But instead of avoiding the mouth of the beast,

He ramm’d in a volume, and cry’d – Graecum est.

Derry down down down derry down

Ye Squires that fear neither hills nor rough rocks,

And think you’re full wise when you outwit a Fox,

Enrich your poor brains, and expose them no more,

Learn Greek, and seek Glory from hunting the Boar.

Derry down down down derry down

The verse refers to event that inspired The Boar’s Head Dinner, still held every year in December at The Queen’s College. It dates back to the 14th century when according to legend, a student while out walking on Shotover Hill, with his head in a book of Aristotle’s Logic, was charged by a wild boar. Fearing for his life, the student thrust his copy of Aristotle into the swine’s mouth, uttering the words, ‘gracca cum est’, ‘with the compliments of the Greeks’, and was saved. It is this miraculous escape that is celebrated with the parading of a Boar’s Head around Christmas time, crowned with rosemary and bay, and set about with flags through the dining hall, past the bust of Aristotle to the Provost’s table. If you care to visit the pretty Church at Horspath, a village not far from Shotover, you will see the tale also told in one of the windows.

This woodcut accompanies a poem entitled ‘The Castle Barber’s Soliloquy’ written in 1760, in the middle of the The Seven Year’s War, when everyone, including the hangman had been called up to fight. In those days barber’s were also surgeons, and here he bemoans the lack of bodies available for his line of work at Oxford Castle prison.

I haven’t reproduced it here, but instead include this sad ‘Epitaph on Parker Hall – Born and executed in Oxford’. He was hung for burglary and the verse appears without illustration.

Here lies PARKER HALL, and what is more rarish,

He was born, bred and hang’d in St Thomas’s Parish.

I love this woodcut of a phaeton, or two horse carriage, and its more inferior side kick, the one horse carriage. Both could be hired once upon a time from Blagrave’s on Oxford’s High Street.

ODE TO AN EAGLE – Confined to a College Court

In this tale, the author laments the imprisonment of this beautiful once mighty eagle, who with clipped wings and standing in chains at the bottom of staircase 6, serves as a passing amusement to college students.

If you’d like to read more of the verse in full, The Oxford Sausage has been digitised and reprinted by The British Library and is part of their Historical Collection series.