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Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo,
That found'ft me poor at first, and keep'it me so ;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue fare thee well,
Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's fide,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
warps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime :
Aid Nighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain,
Teach him, that states of native strength poffeft,
Tho' very poor may still be very bleit ;
That trade's proud empire haftes to swift decay,
And ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ;
While felf-dependant pow'r cao time defy,
As rocks refilt the billows and the sky.
HANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or
Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'd in a platter ;
The haunch was a picture for painter's to fundy,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy,
Tho' my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help re-
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating ;
I had thoughts in my chamber to set it in view,
To be shewn 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 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 me pause-odon't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ;
Well, suppose it a bounce-fure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I proteft 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 Reynold's 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 Monro's :
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff,
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,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat ;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated in reverie center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me.
What have we got here?-Why this is good eating !
Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?
Why whose should it be? cried I, with a founce,
I get these things often ;-but that was a bounce ;
Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleas'd to be kind--but I hate oftentation.
If that be the cafe 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 infift on't- precisely at three : We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there, My acquaintance is light, or I'd ask my lord Clare. And, now that I thinš on't, as I am a finner! We wanted this venifun to make out the dinner. What say you--a pafty, it hall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter—this venison with me to Mile-end ; No ftirring-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, Yet Johofon, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never difiked in my life, Tho' 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 bade me welcome, but ftruck me quite
dumb, With tidings that Johnson, and Burke would not conie,
See the letters that paffed between his royal highness Heury duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor