THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO

LORD CLARE.

1771.

[The Haunch of Venison, though written about 1771, wag not published till two years after Goldsmith's death, 1776. It was addressed to a burly jovial Irish nobleman, Robert Nugent, created Viscount Clare in 1766, and Earl Nugent in 1776. He died 1788. His only daughter married the Marquis of Buckingham].

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.1

HANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in

a platter;

The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; a Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting,

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;

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I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù ;
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 pronounce,
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce;
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

1 This is printed from the second edition, which contains the last corrections of the author, and a few additional lines. The variations are from the first edition.

VARIATION.

a The white was so white, and the red was so ruddy.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn It's a truth and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.1

To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best;

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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 when.

There's Howard, and Coley, and H—rth, and Hiff, I think they love venison-I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone,

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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,d
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself,

entered;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,e

And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me.

1 Lord Clare's Nephew.

VARIATIONS.

There's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and Hiff

c that

d

It would look like a flirt,

Like sending 'em ruffles

e A fine spoken Custom-house officer he,

Who smiled as he gazed on the venison and me.

"What have we got here?-Why this is good eating! Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?'

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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 nation,

Are pleased 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 the dinner. What say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must,f 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! "g

h

Thus snatching his hat, he brushed off like the

wind,

And the porter and eatables followed behind.

f

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,

VARIATIONS.

make up the dinner,

I'll take no denial-you shall, and you must.

No words, my dear Goldsmith my very good friend! h seizing

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