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At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made

hot ;

In the middle a place where the pasty---was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter averfion,
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 did 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 the week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; 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 something 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 pafty! re-echo'd 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 echo'd about." While thus we resolv’d, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ;

A visage


A visage so 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 some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent floven,
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus—but let similies drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac’d,
To send such good verses to one of your taste ;
You've got an odd something a kind of discerning
A relih-a tafte-ficken'd over by learning;

At least, it's your temper, as very well known,

think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.


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The wretch condemn’d with life to part,

Still, ftill on hope relies;
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rife.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way; And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.


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O 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 opprest oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe? And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.



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HN TROTT was desired 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

betters, “ Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er fee your

graces, As I hope to be fav’d! without thinking on asses."

Edinburgh, 1753.

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