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 MileEnd:

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;' * Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,

Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison

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 splendour 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,)

* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor; 12mo., 1769.

My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would

not come;

'For I knew it,' he cried, 'both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;

But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party

With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,

They're both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writesthe 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'das they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen; At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing tureen; At the sides there was spinach 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

Scottish rogue,

'd

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, though may I be curst But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' 'There 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 pasty.'-' A pasty!' repeated the Jew: 'I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 'What the de'il, mon, a pasty?' re-echoed the Scot;

'Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.' 'We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out; 'We'll all keep a corner, was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.. But we quickly 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, it's but labour mis-
plac'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, as 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.