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,

An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, enter'd:

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled 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?" cried I, with a flounce,

I get these things often"-but that was a bounce : "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case 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 insist on't-precisely at three:

We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be 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 venison 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 venison with me to Mile-end ;
No stirring, I beg,-my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself,"

Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty,
Were things that I never disliked 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 cried, "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;

But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party

* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo, 1769.

You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;

At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightiy of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,

You may make a mistake and think slightly of this.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short-
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran-
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad--
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, wheip, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied
The man recovered of the bite-

The dog it was that died.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music (by Signor Vento) was composed in a period of time equally short.

Overture.-A solemn Dirge.

Air.-Trio.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe!

When truth and virtue reach the skies.

'Tis ours to weep the want below.

Chorus.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER.

The praise attending pomp and power,

The incense given to Kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour-

Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them; but the good agree

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good;

Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb: