THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer

, ,

or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'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 chambers, to place it in view, To be sewn to my friends as a piece of virtu ; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:

But,

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But, for eating a rather of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I bear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;
Well, fuppose it a bounce-sųre a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: ! proteft in my turn,
It's a truth—and your lordship may aik 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 beft,
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 Hff,
I think they love venison-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But hang it-to poets who seldom can eat,

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.

Your