Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may

try,

By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest 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 trusty and staunch;

So I cut it, and sent 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 dis

pose;

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe'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.

*Lord Clare's nephew.

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 call'd himself,
enter'd ;

An under-bred, 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 ?'

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 pleas'd to be kind-but I hate ostentation.' If that be the case then,' cried he, very

gay, 'I am 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 MileEnd:

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 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 dislik'd 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),

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

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 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 think 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 swingeing tureen; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;

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 vex'd me most, was that d

Scottish rogue,

-'d

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 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.'

'Oho!' quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice,

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's pasty.'-' A pasty!' repeated the Jew: 'I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 'What the de'il, mon, a pasty?' re-echoed the Scot;

'Tho' 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 resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd 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

baker:

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.