STANZAS

ON THE

TAKING OF QUEBEC.

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joy,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart; Grief dares to mingle her foul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.

O, WOLFE! to thee a ftreaming flood of woe, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conqueft dear: Quebec in vain fhall teach our breaft to glow, Whilft thy fad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And faw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquereft, though dead Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rife.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON

A POETIC EPISTLE

TO LORD CLARE.

;

THANKS,
HANKS, my lord, for your venifon; for finer

or fatter

Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'd on a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy: Though my ftomach was fharp, I could scarce help regretting,

To fpoil fuch a delicate picture by eating:

One

I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;
As in fome Irish houfes, where things are fo fo,
gammon of bacon hangs up for a show :
But, for eating a rafher of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon 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, fuppofe it a bounce-fure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But

But, my lord, it's no bounce; I proteft 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 trufty and ftaunch; So I cut it and fent 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 at parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where and the when.

There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H—ff,
I think they love venifon-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 fending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself,
enter'd ;

An under-bred, fine fpoken fellow was he,

And he fmil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. What have we got here?-why, this is good eating! Your own I fuppofe or is it in waiting?

§ Lord Clare's nephew.

Why

Why whose should it be? cried I, with a flounce,

-but that was a bounce:

Some lords, my acquaintance, that fettle the nation,

Are pleas'd to be kind

but I hate oftentation.

If that be the cafe then, cried he, very gay, I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words-I infift o'nt-precifely at three: We'll have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will be there,

My acquaintance is flight, or I'd afk my lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a finner! We wanted this venifon to make out the dinner. What fay you?-a pasty, it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft. Here, porter-this venifon with me to Mile-end No stirring I beg—my dear friend —my dear friend!

Thus fnatching his hat he brufht off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And nobody with me at fea but myself;" * Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hafty, Yet Johnfon and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were

• See the letters that paffed between his royal highness Henry, duke of Cumberland and lady Grofvenor.-12mo. 1769.

Were, things that I never diflik'd in my life,

Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due fplendour 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 ftruck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not

come,

For I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail,

The one with his fpeeches, and t'other with Thrale I
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. O
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They both of them merry, and authors like you
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge
Some thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge.
While thus he defcrib'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was ferv'd as they came.

At the top a fried liver, and bacon was seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ;
At the fides there was fpinnage, and pudding made

hot;

In the middle a place where the pasty- -was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter averfion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Perfian;

So

A

B