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And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner?
We wanted this venison to make out a dinner.
What say youma 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 brushed 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 ;'**
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty.
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogged 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-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade we welcome, but struck me quite dumb,

[come ; With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not " 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, 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 thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he described them by trade and by name, They entered, and dinner was served as they came.

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

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; [hot; At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made 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 vexed me most was that d- -ed Scottish rogue,

[brogue; With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his And,“ madam,” quoth he,

may

this bit be my poiA prettier dinner I never set eyes on:

[son, Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst.” «The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, “I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "0-ho!"

quoth my friend, whe'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty," a pasty !" repeated the jew; "I dont care if I keep a corner for't too." 6. What the de'il, mon, a pasty !” re-echoed the Scot, « Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.” "We'll all keep a corner,” the lady cried out; “ We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid;

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her:
That she came with some terrible news from the ba-
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven [ker :
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste ;
You've got an odd something—a kind of discerninga
A relish-a taste-sickened over by learning :
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own.
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

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To Iris, in Bow-strcet, Covent Garden.

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall I make

Expressive of my duty ?

My heart a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair-one prize

The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give--and let 'em. If gems, or gold impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'll give but not the full-blown rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion ; Such short-lived offerings but disclose

A transitory passion :

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil; I'll give thee--ah! too charming maid,

I'll give thee-to the devil.

A NEW SIMILE,

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind ;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and

sense,

and nature's spite ; Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Phantheon, I think I met with something there, To suit my purpose to a hair : But let us not proceed too furious ; First please to turn to god Mercurius ;

You'll find him pictured at full length
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat;
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed :
A just comparison. Proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes ; Designed, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air ; And here my simile unites; For in a modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, Filled with a snake encircled wand; By classic authors, termed Caduceus, And highly famed for several uses. To wit-most wondrously endued ; No poppy-water half so good ; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore. Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell.

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