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THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A

POETICAL EPISTLE

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or

fatter

Ne'er 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 chamber, to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtû:
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.

G

But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro

nounce,

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce; 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 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 ven'son-I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone.

1 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 center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en-
ter'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?" cry'd 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," cry'd he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow take a you dinner with me; No words-I insist on't-precisely at three;

poor

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