THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON;

A

POETICAL EPISTLE

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE.

THANKS, 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;

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 virtû ;
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'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.

VOL. II.

6

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

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.

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 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 mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd ;
An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled 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?>>

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.

'Lord Clare's nephew.

To-morrow you take

poor a

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!»
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And << nobody with me at sea but myself; »1

1

Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendour 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, just twelve feet by nine,)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck 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 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're both of them merry,

and authors like you:

See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.- -12mo. 1769.

The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge. >>
While thus he described them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinage, 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 in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most 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 set eyes on:

Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,

But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.»

« The tripe,» quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,
<< I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small;
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.»
«O-ho!" quoth my friend, « he'll come on in a trice,
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;
There's a pasty»-« A pasty!» repeated the Jew,
<< I don't care if I keep a corner for 't too."

« What the de’il, mon, a pasty!» re-echoed the Scot,
« Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.»
<< We'll all keep a corner,» the lady cried out;
« We'll all keep a corner,» was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the
pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid :