STANZAS

N THE

TAKING OF QUEBEC.

A

MIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart!
Grief dares to mingle her foul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start!

O! WOLFE! to thee, a ftreaming flood of woe

Sighing we pay, aud think e'en conquest dear : QUEBEC in vain fhall teach our breafts to glow, Whilft thy fad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And faw thee fall with joy.pronouncing eyes : Yet they fhall know thou conquereft, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rife.`

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I

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

POETICAL EPISTLE,

то

LORD CLARE.

HANKS, my Lord, for your venifon, for finer or fatter

THA

Never rang'd in a foreft, or smoak'd in a platter;
The HAUNCH was a picture for painters to study,,
The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy;

Though my ftomach was sharp, I could fcarce help regretting,

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:

I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtù.;

As in fome IRISH houses, where things are so so, for a fhow:

One gammon of bacon hangs up

But, for eating a rafher of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon think of eating the pan it was fried in.
But hold let me pause-don't I hear yoù pronounce—
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;

Well, fuppofe 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 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 trufty and ftaunch;
So I cut it, and fent it to Reynolds undreft,
To paint it, or eat it, juft as he lik'd beft.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to difpofe;

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monro's: But in parting with thefe 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 venifon-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 feldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;

Lord Clare's nephew.

Such

ties to them their health it might hurt, ending them ruffles, when wanting a fhirt. is I debated, in reverie center'd,

intance, a friend, as he call himself, enter'd;
-bred, fine-fpoken fellow, was he,

nil'd, as he look'd at the venifon and me.
have we got here?—Why this is good eating!
own, I suppose-or is it in waiting ?"--
whose should it be?" cried I, with a flounce;
efe things often ;"-but that was a bounce.
-rds, my acquaintance, that fettle the nation,
as'd to be kind-but I hate oftentation!"

at be the cafe, then," cried he, very gay,
d I have taken this houfe in my way.

rrow, you

take a poor

dinner with me;

ds-I insist on't—precisely at three:

nave Johnson, and Burke-all the wits will be

there;

uaintance is flight, or I'd afk my Lord Clare.

ow that I think on't, as I am a finner! nted this venifon to make out a dinner. ay you?-a pafty, it fhall, and it must; y wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft. orter, this venifon with me to Mile-end; ing-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend"" ching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my fhelf,
And-" nobody with me at fea but myself*;"
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hafty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never diflik'd in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty, his wife.
So next day, in due fplendor 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 nineMy friend bade me welcome-but ftruck 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 fpeeches, 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 both of them merry, and authors, like you: "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 ferv'd as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon, were seen;

"

At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing tureen;

1

See the letters that paffed between his Royal Highness Henry

Duke of Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor-1769.

At