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HANKS, my lord, for your venifon, for finer or
Never rang'd in a foreft, or fmoak'd in a platter;
To fpoil fuch a delicate picture by eating;
I had thoughts in my chamber to fet it in view,
As in fome Irish houfes, where things are fo fo,
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I proteft in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may afk Mr. Burn. * To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch; I thought of a friend that was trufty and ftaunch, So I cut it, and fent it to Reynold's undrest, To paint it, or eat it, juft as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breaft I had next to difpofe ; 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monro'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,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
And he fmil'd as he look'd at the venifon and me. What have we got here?-Why this is good eating! Your own I fuppofe-or is it in waiting?
*Lord Clare's Nephew.
Why whofe fhould it be? cried I, with a flounce,
get these things often ;-but that was a bounce; Some lords, my acquaintance, that fettle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind-but I hate oftentation.
If that be the cafe 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 infift on't- precifely at three: We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there, My acquaintance is flight, or I'd afk my lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a finner ! We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. What fay you-a pafty, it fall, and it muft, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft. Here, porter-this venifon with me to Mile-end; No ftirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!) Thus fnatching 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 fea but myfelf;" * Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hafty, Yet Johnfon, and Burke, and a good venifon pafty, Were things that I never difliked in my life, Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due fplendor 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 clofet juft twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade me welcome, but ftruck me quite dumb,
With tidings that Johnfon, and Burke would not come,
See the letters that paffed between his royal highnefs Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grófvenor1769.
For I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail,
At the top a fried liver, and bacon were feen, At the bottom was tripe in a fwinging tureen; At the fides there was fpinnage and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now my lord, as for tripe it's my utter averfion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Perfian; So there I fat ftuck, like a horfe in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me moft, was that d-d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded fpeeches, his fmiles and his brogue,
And, madam, quoth he, may this bit be my poison,
Pray a flice of your liver, tho' may I be curft,
While thus we refolv'd, and the pafly delay'd,