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At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen; At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing tareen; 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 carst But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' The tripe,' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,

1 could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: 1 like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.'

Oho! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's pasty., A pasty!' repeated the jew: 'I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' "What the de'il mon, a pasty ? re-echoed 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 echoed 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, its 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.

RETALIATION:

A Poem;

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV., AFTER

THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

!

Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.

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