A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a miud

Should so long be to news paper essays confin'! Who perhaps to the summit of science could

soar,

Yet content if 'the table he set in a roar ;'

Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall* confess'd him a wit.

Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!

Who copied his squibs and re echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,

Still follow your master, and visit his tomb :
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, ship news, and mistakes of the
press*.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit

That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit:

This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse,

"Thou best-humor'd man with the worst humor'd

muse.'

*Mr. H. S Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

A POETICAL EPISTLE

TO

LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN 1765.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON:

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in
view,

To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride
in,

They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.

But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro

nounce,

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ? Well suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to

fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my 'turn,

It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn*.

To go on with my tale-As I gaz'd on the haunch;

I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dis

pose;

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's ;

But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.

There's Hd, and C--y, and H-rth, and H-ff,

I think they love venison-I know they love beef.

There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him

alone,

For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But hang it to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a

shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred,

Lord Clare's nephew.