« EelmineJätka »
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON;
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
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,
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 Hd, and Cy, and H-rth, and Hff
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
And he smil❜d as he look'd at the venison and me.
If that be the case 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 insist on't-precisely at three: We'll have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will be there; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you, a pasty, it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter-this venison with me to Mile-end; No stirring-I beg—my dear friend-my dear friend! Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd 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 sea but myself;'
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine :)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ;
At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinage and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, 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 d-'d Scottish
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, tho' 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 a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.' '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!' repeated the Jew; 'I don't care, if I keep a corner for❜t too.' 'What the de'el, mon, a pasty!' re-echo'd the Scot,
Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.'
We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cry'd out;
We'll all keep a corner,' was echo'd about.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.