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HANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or
fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak’d in a platter ; The haunch was: a picture for painter's to stndy, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy, Tho' my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help rem
gretting, To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;
a I had thoughts in my chamber to set it in view, To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu ;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
for a show :
go on with
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. *
my tale--as I gaz'd on the haunch; I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynold's 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 Monro'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 C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff, I think they love venison, 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, wanting a shirt. While thus I debated in reverie center'd, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd ; An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. What have we got here?-Why this is good eating ! Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?
* Lord Clare's Nephew,
Why whose should it be? cried I, with a founce,
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 infist on't- precisely at three : We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there, My acquaintance is light, 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 bush'd 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 sea but myself ; Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 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 dvor 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 royal hig!:ness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor1769.
for I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail,
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, is for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Türk or a Persian ; So there I fat ttuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me moit, was that I'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 ; Pray a nice of your liver, tho' may I be curst, 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; But your friend there the doctor, eats nothing at all. O-uh! quoth my friend he'll coine on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for fomething that's nice : There's a paity!-a pasty' repeated the jew : I dou't care if I keep a corner for t tao. What the deil mon, a pasty ! re-echo'd the Scut; 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 pasty delay'd,
you think very slightly of all that's your own ;