THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A

POETICAL EPISTLE

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765.

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;
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 chamber, to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtû:
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 fried in.

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'. 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 best:

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 H-ff,
I think they love venʼson-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.