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As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bạcon 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 fry'd in.
But holdlet 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.


go on with

But, my lord, it's no bounce : I proteft in my turn, It's a truth and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. *

my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch; I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynold's undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd beft. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monro'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 Cry, 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, wanting a shirt. While thus I debated in reverie center'd, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smild as he look'd at the venison and me. What have we got here?-Why this is good eating! Your own I suppose or is it in waiting ?

* Lord Clareis Nephew.

Why whose should it be? cried I, with a founce,

get these things often ;-but that was a bounce ; Some lords, my acquaintance, that fettle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind-but I hate ostentation.

If that be the cafe then, cried he, very gay,
I'm glad, I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you

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 flight, or I'd afk my lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a finner !
We wanted this venifun to make out the dinner,
What say youm-a pafty, it hall, and it muft,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter-this venison with me to Mile-end ;
No ftirring-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.

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Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And " nobody with me at sea but myself ;" *
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison party,
Were things that I never diliked in my

Tho'clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendor 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-lumber'd closet juft twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade me welcome, but ftruck me quite

dumb, With tidings that Johnson, and Burke would not come,

* See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor-1769.


for I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail,
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 both of them merry and authors like you ;

The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ;
Some thinks he writes Cinna-he owos 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 seeit, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinnage 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 iu a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me mult, was that d-d 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 ser


on ; Pray a slice of your liver, tho may I be curst, But I've eat at your tripe till I'ın ready to burst. The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : I like these liere dinners so pretty and small; But

your friend there the doctor, cats nothing at all.
O-oh! quuth my friend he'll come on in a trice,
He's keeping a corner for fomething that's nice :
There's a paily !---d paity' repeated the jew :
I don't care if í keep a corner for t. too.
What the deil, mon, a pasty ! re-echo'd the Scut ;

Though splitting I'll till keep a cuiner for that.
We'll all keep a corner, the lady cried out.
We'll all keep a corner, was echu'd about.

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While thus we refolv'd, and the party delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ;
A vifage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak d Priam in drawing his curtain 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 cut, for that negligent soven,
Had frut out the pasty in shutting the oven.
Sad Philomel thus--but let fimilies drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your
You've got an odd something a kind of difcerning
A relitha tafte-fickend over by learning;
At least, its your temper as very well known,
That you think very lightly of all that's your own :
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.


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