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As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
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,
dinner with me ;
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
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 writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ;
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.
Though splitting I'll till keep a cuiner for that.
While thus we refolv'd, and the party delay'd,