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HANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I proteft in my turn,
* Lord Clare's Nephew.
Why whose should it be? cried I, with a Aounce,
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 infift on't - precisely at three : We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there, My acquaintance is fight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a finner ! We wanted this venifun to make out the dinner. What say you--a pafty, it hall, and it mult, 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 follow'd behind.
Left alone to refled, having emptied my shelf, And “ novody with me at sea but myself ;" * Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman halty, Yet Johofon, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never diliked in my life, Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendor 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 comie,
See the letters that paffed between his roya! higliness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor
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
the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 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 describ'd them by trade and by name, They enter'd and dinner was serv'd as they came.
At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinnage 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 Persian ; So there I fat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most, was that did 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 ; Pray a fice of your liver, thu may I be curit, But I've eat at 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 the week : I like these here dinners so pretty and small;
rifriend there the doctor, eats nothing at all. Oh! quoth my friend he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : There's à paily !---a paity! repeated the jew : I dou't care if I keep a corner for t too. What the deil, mon, a pasty ! re-echo'd the Scot; Though splitting I'll fill keep a corner for that. We'll all keep a corner, the lady cried out. We all keep a corner, was echo'd about.
While thus we resolv'd, and the pafly delay'd,
think very slightly of all that's your own :