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 haunch was a picture for painters to ftudy,

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,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;

As in fome Irish houfes, where things are fo fo,
gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:
G

One

But,

But, for eating a rasher 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-fure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly,

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,
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 feldom 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 vanting a fhirt,

• 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,
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 the dinner.
What fay you-a pafty, it fhall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft.
Here, porter-this venifon with me to Mile-end;
No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend !"
Thus fnatching his hat, he brufht 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 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,
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 defcribed 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 fwinging tureen;

* See the letters that paffed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor-12°. 1769.

At