THE HAUNCH OF VENISON, A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
[Price One Shilling and Six-pence.]
Entered at Stationers Hall.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON, A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
By the late Dr. GOLDSMITH.
With a HEAD of the AUTHOR, Drawn by HENRY BUNBURY,
Esq
and Etched by BRETHERTON.
LONDON: Printed for J. RIDLEY, in St. James's Street; and G. KEARSLY, in Fleet Street. MDCCLXXVI.
TO Lord
CLARE.
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?
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;
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.
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.
"
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.'
" 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:
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.
EPITAPH.
THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle PARNEL's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to Truth thro' Pleasure's flow'ry way?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heav'n, that lent him Genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of Fame below:
More lasting rapture from his Works shall rise,
While Converts thank their Poet in the skies.
FROM THE Oratorio of the CAPTIVITY, BY Dr.
GOLDSMITH.
SONG.
THE Wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on Hope relies;
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,
Bids Expectation rise.
Hope, like the glim'ring taper's light,
Adorns and chears the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
SONG.
I.
O Memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;
II.
Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.