THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

"The Haunch of Venison," written, it is believed, in 1771, was first published in 1776, two years after Goldsmith's death. It is here printed from the second edition, 1776, containing ten additional lines and numerous emendations, said to be taken from the last transcript of its author.-CUNNINGHAM.

THE Lord Clare to whom this poem is addressed, was Robert Nugent of Carlanstown, Westmeath, created, 1766, Viscount Clare, and, in 1776, Earl Nugent. He died at Dublin, in 1788, and was buried at Gosfield, in Essex. He was a poet, and a stanza from his Ode to Pulteney has been quoted by Gibbon in his character of Brutus:

"What! though the good, the brave, the wise,
With adverse force undaunted rise

To break th' eternal doom;

Though Cato liv'd, though Tully spoke,

Though Brutus dealt the godlike stroke,—

Yet perished fatal Rome."

He was thrice married; was a big, jovial, voluptuous Irishman, with a loud voice, a strong Irish accent, and a ready, though coarse wit.-CUNNINGHAM.

"The leading idea of 'Haunch of Venison' is taken from Boileau's third Satire, (which itself was no doubt suggested by Horace's raillery of the banquet of Nasidienus;) and two or three of the passages which one would à priori have pronounced the most original and natural, are closely copied from the French poet."-CROKER.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Never 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 chambers to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù; 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 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. Byrne.1

1 Lord Clare's nephew.

VARIATIONS (First Edition.)

a The white was so white, and the red was so ruddy!

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

b

the when.

There's Howard, and Coley, and H-rth, and Hiff, I think they love venison-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 seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;

• An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he, And he smil❜d as he look'd at the venison and me.

VARIATIONS.

b There's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and Hiff-,

• that

d

It would look like a flirt,

Like sending 'em ruffles

A fine spoken customhouse officer he,

Who smil❜d as he gaz'd on the venison 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?' cried 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,' cried he, very gay, 'I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words I insist on't precisely at three: We'll have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will

be there;

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.
And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!

We wanted this venison to make out the 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 Mile-end;

No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear

h

friend!'

[wind,

Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,

I'll take no denial — you shall, and you must.

8 No words, my dear Goldsmith! my very good friend!

1 seizing