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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 a breast I had next to dispose ;
'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 hiin alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But hang ito 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 center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call's 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'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 ford 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 Alile-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 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, Tho'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 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.

the party,

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

2 B

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 its 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 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 slice of your liver, tho' 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, he'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 don't care, if I keep a corner for't too."
" What the de’el, mon, a pasty! re-echo'd the Scot,
Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.”
“ We'll all keep a corner,” the lady cry'd out;
* We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd 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.
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 misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste ;
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 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.

FROM THE ORATORIO

OF

THE CAPTIVITY.

SONG.

The wretch condemn’d with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies ;
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way; And still as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

SONG

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain ;

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo; And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

THE CLOWN's REPLY. . JOHN TROTT was desir’d by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; “ An't please you," quoth John, “ I'm not given to

“ letters, “ Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; « Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, “ As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses."

Edinburgh, 1753.

EPITAPH
ON EDWARD PURDON*
HERE lies puor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

Who long was a bookseller's hack:
He led such a damnable life in this world

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dub. lin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's HENRIADE.

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