THE HAUNCH OF VENISON, A POETICAL EPISTLE, T LORD CLARE. THANKS, my lord, for your venifon, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a foreft, or fmoak'd in a platter; The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy; Though my ftomach was fharp, I could fcarce help regretting, To fpoil fuch a delicate picture by eating; I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view, As in fome Irish houfes, where things are fo fo, One But, But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, But, my lord, it's no bounce: I proteft in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. * Το go on with my talee-as I gaz'd on the haunch; I thought of a friend that was trufty and ftaunch, So I cut it, and fent it to Reynolds undreft, To paint it, or eat it, juft 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, • Lord Clare's nephew. 7 "While While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en ter'd ; An under-bred, fine-fpoken fellow was he, And he fmil'd as he look'd at the venifon 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 fettle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind---but I hate oftentation." "If that be the cafe then, cried he, very gay, We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there; My acquaintance is flight, or I'd afk my lord Clare. We wanted this venifon to make out the dinner. * Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at fea but myself;" Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hafty, 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, At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a fwinging tureen; * See the letters that paffed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor-12°. 1769. At |