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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 dd 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 cursed, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.”

E

“ 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; There's a 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!" reechoed 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 resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked 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 dropAnd now that I think on't the story may stop.

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,
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.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774.

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 epi. taphs on bim. His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next ineeting produced the following poem.]

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united.
If our landlord' supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best

dish :

1 The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.

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