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 describ'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd 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 Scottish
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his
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 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:
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!" re-echo'd 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 echo'd 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 in 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, it's but labor 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.
FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774. AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.
[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James' 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.]
Or 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:
* The master of the St. James' Coffee-house, where the Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.
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