THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: G But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro nounce, This tale of the bacon's 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. Burn'. . There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff, I think they love ven'son-I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 1 Lord Clare's nephew. But hang it to poets who seldom can eat, An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the ven'son 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?" cry'd I with a flounce; "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 ostentation." "If that be the case then," cry'd he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow take a you dinner with me; No words-I insist on't-precisely at three; poor |