'No, never from this hour to part

We'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too.'

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.*

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked 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 virtu ;
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.
But hold - let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce,
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,

*The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated from Boileau's fourth Satire. Boileau himself took the hint from Horace, Lib. ii. Sat. 8, which has also been imitated by Regnier, Sat. 10.

It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.*
To go on with my tale: as I gazed 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 liked best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Munroe'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 venison I know they love beef;
There's my countryman, Higgins — oh, let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone:
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 centred,

An acquaintance-a friend, as he call'd himself—
enter'd;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me,
'What have you 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 pleased to be kind - but I hate ostentation.'

*Lord Clare's nephew.

If that be the case, 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; precisely at three;

No words I insist on't

We'll have Johnson, and Burke,

there:

- all the wits will be

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner,

We wanted this venison to make out a dinner.
a pasty? it shall, and it must,

What say you

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 friend!
Thus, snatching 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 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 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 all were to dine, (A chair-lumbered 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,

* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769.

The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale: *
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 thinks 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 was spinage, 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

6

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 curst,
But I've ate 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;

* An eminent London brewer, M. P. for the borough of South. wark, at whose table Dr. Johnson was a frequent guest.