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THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

А

POETICAL EPISTLE

TO

LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or

fatter Ne’er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help

regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view, To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtů: As in some Irish houses, where things are só 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 fried in. But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro

nounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce; 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.Burn'. To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch, I 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 H—d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff, I think they love ven’son-I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone,

1 Lord Clare's nephew.

But hang it--to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie.center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he calld himself, en-

ter'd; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the ven'son and me. “What have we got here?—Why this is good eat

ing! Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting ?” « Why whose should it be?"cry'd I with a flounce; “ I get these things often”—but that was a bounce: “ Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the

tion, Are pleas'd to be kind—but I hate ostentation.”

“ 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

dinner with me; No words I insist on't-precisely at three;

take a poor

na

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