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 fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there were spinnage 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 rogue, 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." "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'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot; "Though 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 echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, 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?) And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven And now that I think on't the story may stop. You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning- At least it's your temper, as very well known,. F |