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At the fides there was fpinnage and pudding made


In the middle a place where the pafty---was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter averfion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Perfian,
So there I fat ftuck, like a horfe in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
But what vex'd me moft, was that d'd Scottish


With his long-winded fpeeches, his fmiles and his brogue,


"madam, quoth he, may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never fet eyes on;

Pray a flice of your liver, though may I be curft, 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 the week: I like these here dinners fo pretty and fmall; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "O-oh! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for fomething that's nice : There's a pafty"—" 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-echo'd the Scot; Though splitting, I'll ftill 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 refolv'd, and the pafty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; G4

A vifage

A vifage fo fad, and fo 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 fome terrible news from the baker:
And fo it fell out, for that negligent floven,

Had fhut out the pafty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let fimilies drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may ftop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To fend fuch good verses to one of your taste ;
You've got an odd fomething-a kind of discerning—
A relish-a tafte-ficken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very flightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amifs,
You may make a mistake, and think flightly of this.


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s o N G.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, ftill on hope relies ;

And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.




Memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;

Thou, like the world, the oppreft oppreffing,
Thy fmiles increase the wretch's woe?
And he who wants each other bleffing,
In thee muft ever find a foe.







JOHN TROTT was defired by two witty peers,

To tell them the reason why affes had ears? "An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,

"Nor dare I pretend to know more than my bet


"Howe'er from this time I fhall ne'er fee your 66 graces,

"As I hope to be fav'd! without thinking on affes."

Edinburgh, 1753

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