THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A

POETICAL EPISTLE,

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd 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 shewn 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 fry'd 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.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, It's a truth—and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn *. Το 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 sent it to Reynolds undrest,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd 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 center'd,

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

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

* Lord Clare's nephew.

"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 pleas'd 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 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 *;" Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,

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

Were things that I never dislik'd in my life,
Tho' 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:
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ;
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns 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 seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinach 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

And,

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brogue,

66

Madam," quoth he, may this bit be my poison,

A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;

Pray a slice of your liver, tho' 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'el, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot, "Tho' 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 echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains 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 out, for that negligent sloven

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.