Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,

66

And nobody with me at sea but myself,"

Though 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 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 struck me quite dumb

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;

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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 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 described them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.

80

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,

At the bottom was tripe in a swinging 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-'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 slice of your liver, though may I be curs'd,
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 the week;
I like these here dinners so pretty and small

But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."

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‘Oh-oh!” 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."

102

66

What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" reëcho'd 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 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 over.

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 labor 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.

124

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

Overture. A solemn dirge.

Air.- Trio.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe;

When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below!

Chorus.

When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below!

From Threnodia Augustalis, etc., London, W. Woodfall, 1772. Sm. 4to. This pamphlet, which is almost unique, was politely communicated to me by William Knight, esq., F.S.A., of Canonbury-place, Isling-I transcribe the advertisement: "The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may, therefore, rather be

ton.

MAN speaker.

The praise attending pomp and power,

The incense given to kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour

Mere transitory things!

The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But, when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind

When titles are the smallest claim

When wealth and rank and noble blood

But aid the power of doing good

Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.

considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short." On the verso we read: "Speakers, Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. Singers, Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson; with twelve chorus singers. The music prepared and adapted by Signor Vento."-Augusta, relict of Frederic, Prince of Wales, and mother of George the third, died at Carlton-house on the 8th of February, 1772; and this piece was performed, at the establishment of Mrs. Cornelys in Sohosquare, on the evening of the 20th. The poet depicts her royal highness with historical exactness: the embellishment of Kew palace and gardens, under the direction of Chambers and others, was the favorite object of her widowhood; her charities were very extensive; she experienced domestic sorrows; and latterly, to the disgrace of the public press, much unmerited abuse.