6 The dew, the blossoms of the tree, For still I tried each fickle art, And while his passion touch'd my heart, Till, quite dejected with my scorn, And sought a solitude forlorn In secret where he died. 'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, I'll seek the solitude he sought, And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.' Forbid it, Heaven!' the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, "Twas Edwin's self that press'd. • Turn, Angelina, ever dear, Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here, Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And shall we never, never part, No, never, from this hour to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Ne'er ranged in a forest or smoked in a platter; To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: 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, [Burn'. It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. 1 Lord Clare's nephew. X To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, There's H-d and C-y and H—rth and H—ff, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An underbred, finespoken fellow was he, And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. What have we got here ?-Why this is good eat ing! 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 pleased to be kind--but I hate ostentation.' We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there; [Clare. My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you-a pasty, it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter-this venison with me to Mile End; No stirring, I beg-my dear friend-my dear [wind, Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And nobody with me at sea but myself2;' Though I could not help thinking my gentleman friend!' hasty, [pasty Yet Johnson and Burke and a good venison Were things that I never disliked 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 were all to dine (A chair lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb [come; With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not For I knew it (he cried), both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and the' other with Thrale; 2 See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor. 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'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 described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there were 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 Scot[his brogue, tish rogue, With his long winded speeches, his smiles, and And, madam (quoth he), may this bit be my A prettier dinner I never set eyes on; [poison, Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be cursed, 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 a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.' 'O-ho! (quoth my friend) he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : |