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THANKS, my lord, for your ven’son, for finer or


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

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,

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 fry'd in.
But hold—let me pause--don't I hear you pronounce,
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



z'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 dispose ;
'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 H–d, and Cmy, and H-rth, and H—ff, I think they love ven’son~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.

Lord Clare's nephew.

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil'd as he look'd at the ven’son and me.
“ What have we got here ?-Why, this is good

eating! Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?" “Why, whose should it be?” cry'd I with a flounce; " I get these things often :"_but that was a bounce : « Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas’d to be kind--but I hate ostentation."

" If that be the case then,” cry'd he, very gay, « I'm glad I have taken this house in my way, To-morrow you

dinner with me; No words I insist on 't-precisely at three : We 'll have Johnson and Burke ; all the wits will be

take a poor

there ;

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this ven'son to make out a dinner.
What say you ?-a pasty, it shall, and it must;
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.

Here, porter—this ven'son with me to Mile End;
No stirring-1 beg--my dear friend—my dear friend!"
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having empty'd my shelf,
And nobody with me at sea but myself *;" :
Tho'I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven’son pasty,
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney.coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite

dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not

come ; “ For I knew it,” he cry'd; “ both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ;

* See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland and lady Grosvenor, 12mo, 1769.

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But no matter, I 'll warrant we 'll make


the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he describ’d them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.

At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinage and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your

bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vext me most, was that d'd Scottish

rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his

brogue ; And,“ Madam," quoth he,“ may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ;

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