THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for fine, or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, nounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce? 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, Lord Clare's nephew. So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, There's Hd, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff, 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 ven'son 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, My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. What say you? a pasty, it shall, and it must, Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 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 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; Bat 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. See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor: 12mo. 1769. |