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THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

Α

POETICAL EPISTLE,

T

LORD CLARE.

THANKS,

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

Never rang'd in a foreft, or fimoak'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy; Though my ftomach was sharp, I could fcarce help regretting,

To fpoil fuch a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;
As in fome Irish houfes, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a fhow:

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84

THE HAUNCH

But, for eating a rafher of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;
Well, fuppofe 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, So I cut it, and fent it to Reynolds 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 Monroe's ; But in parting with thefe I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the

when.

There's H-d, and C―y, and H-rth, and H—ff,
I think they love venifon-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 feidom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like fending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

Lord Clare's nephew.

While

OF VENISON.

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en

ter'd;

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

And he fmil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. "What have we got here ?-Why this is good eating! Your own I fuppofe-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 pleas'd to be kind-but I hate oftentation."

"If that be the cafe 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 infift 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 venifon to make out a dinner.
What fay you-a pafty, it fhall, and it muft,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft.
Here, porter-this venifon with me to Mile-end;
No ftirring I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus fnatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

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And nobody with me at fea but myself;"
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, -
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due fplendour 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 clofet juft twelve feet by nine:) My friend bade me welcome, but ftruck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not

come;

"For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,
The one with his fpeeches, 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 owns to Panurge."
While thus he described them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was ferv'd as they came,

At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;

See the letters that paffed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor12° 1769.

At

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