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Farewell ; and O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted Truth, with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states, of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky,

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON;

A POETICAL EPISTLE

TO

LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXV,

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or

fatter

Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd 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 chambers to place it in view,
To be shown 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 pro-

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, It's a truth and your lordship may ask Mr, Burn. To go on with my tale-As I gaz'd on the haunch; I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch,

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So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's;
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the

wben.
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 matton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending then ruffles when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en-

ter'd; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the ven'son and me. • What have we 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 pation, Are pleas’d to be kind--but I hate ostentation.'

• 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; No words I insist on't-precisely at three : We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be

there; 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. 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

friend!

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