TO Lord CLARE.
[1]THANKS, my Lord, for your Ven'ſon; for finer, or fatter,
Never rang'd in a foreſt, or ſmok'd on a platter:
The Haunch was a picture for Painters to ſtudy;
The white was ſo white, and the red was ſo ruddy!
I had thoughts, in my chamber to hang it in view,
To be ſhown 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 us pauſe—Don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the Bacon a damnable bounce?
[2] 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. BURNE.
To go on with my tale—As I gaz'd on the Haunch,
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 COLEY, and WILLIAMS, and HOWARD, and HIFF—
I think they love Ven'ſon; I know they love Beef:
But—hang it!—to Poets, that ſeldom can eat,
Your very good Mutton's a very good treat:
Such dainties to them! It would look like a flirt,
Like ſending 'em Ruffles when wanting a Shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,
An Acquaintance, a Friend—as he call'd himſelf, enter'd;
[3] A fine-ſpoken Cuſtom-houſe Officer he,
Who ſmil'd as he gaz'd on the Ven'ſon and me.
" What have we got here?—Aye, this is good eating!
" Your own, I ſuppoſe—or is it in waiting?"
Why, whoſe ſhould it be, Sir? cry'd I, with a flounce;
I get theſe things often—But that was a bounce.
" If that be the caſe then," cry'd 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.
" And now that I think on't, as I am a ſinner,
" We wanted this Ven'ſon to make up the dinner.
" I'll take no denial—you ſhall, and you muſt;
" And my Wife, little Kitty, is famous for Cruſt.
" We'll have JOHNSON and BURKE; all the Wits will be there;
" My acquaintance is ſlight, or I'd aſk my Lord CLARE.
" Here, Porter! this Ven'ſon with me to Mile-end—
" No words, my dear GOLDSMITH! my very good Friend!"
Thus, ſeizing his hat, he bruſh'd off like the wind,
And the Porter and Eatables follow'd behind.
[4]
Left alone to reflect, having empty'd my ſhelf,
And nobody with me at ſea, but myſelf;
Though I could not help thinking my Gentleman haſty,
Yet JOHNSON and BURKE, and a good Ven'ſon 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 ſplendor 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 bid me welcome, but ſtruck me quite dumb
With tidings that JOHNSON and BURKE could not come:
" And I knew it," he cry'd; "both eternally fail;
" The one at the Houſe, and the other with THRALE.
" But, I warrant for me, we ſhall make up the Party,
" With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
" The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
" Who dabble and write in the Papers—like you:
" The one writes the Snarler; the other, the Scourge:
" Some think he writes Cinna—he owns to Panurge."
[5]
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 fry'd Liver and Bacon was ſeen;
At the bottom was Tripe in a ſwinging terrene;
At the ſides there was Spinage and Pudding made hot;
In the middle—a place, where the Ven'ſon was not.
Now, my Lord, as for Tripe, it's my utter averſion;
And your Bacon I hate, like a Turk, or a Perſian:
But what vex'd me moſt was that damn'd Scottiſh Rogue,
With his long-winded ſpeeches, and ſmiles, and his brogue:
" And, Madam," ſays he, "may this bit be my poiſon
" If a prettier Dinner I ever ſet eyes on!
" Pray, a ſlice of your Liver;—but may I be curſt,
" But I've eat of your Tripe till I'm ready to burſt."
'Your Tripe!' quoth the Jew, 'if the truth I may ſpeak,
'I could eat of 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.'
[6] " 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!' returned the Scot;
'I don't care if I keep a corner for thot.'
" We'll all keep a corner," the Lady cry'd out:
We'll all keep a corner, was eccho'd about.
While thus we reſolv'd, and the Paſty delay'd,
With looks quite aſtoniſhing enter'd the Maid:
A viſage ſo ſad, and ſo pale with affright!
Wak'd PRIAM, by drawing his curtains by night.
But too ſoon we 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.
Sad Philomel thus—but let ſimiles drop;
And now, that I think on't, the ſtory may ſtop.
To be plain, my good Lord, 'tis but labour miſplac'd
To ſend ſuch good Verſes to one of your taſte:
[7] You've got an odd ſomething, a kind of diſcerning,
A reliſh, a taſte, ſicken'd over by learning;
At leaſt it's your temper, 'tis very well known,
That you 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.
THE END.