This dog and man at first were friends;

But, when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran;
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bito so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite-
The dog it was that died.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is to die.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER, 1769.†

This is a Poem! This is a copy of verses!

Your mandate I got-
You may all go to pot:
Had your senses been right,
You'd have sent before night.
As I hope to be saved
I put off being shaved-
For I could not make bold,
While the matter was cold,
To meddle in suds,

Or to put on my duds:
So tell Horneck and Nesbitt,
And Baker and his bit,

And Kauffman beside,

And the Jessamy Bride,

* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's "Henriade."

From the "Miscellaneous Works," 1837. The host on this occasion was George Baker, M.D. His expected guests were Sir Joshua and Miss Reynolds, Angelica Kauffman, Mrs Horneck, widow of Captain Kane Horneck, her son Charles, or the Captain in lace, her daughters, Mary, or the Jessamy Bride, afterwards Mrs Gwyn, and Catherine, or Little Comedy, afterwards Mrs Bunbury.

With the rest of the crew,
The Reynoldses two,
Little Comedy's face,

And the Captain in lace.
-By the by, you may tell him
I have something to sell him;
Of use, I insist,

When he comes to enlist.

Your worships must know
That, a few days ago,
An order went out

For the foot-guards so stout
To wear tails in high taste---
Twelve inches at least:
Now I've got him a scale
To measure each tail;
To lengthen a short tail,
And a long one to curtail.

Yet how can I, when vex'd,

Thus stray from my text!
Tell each other to rue
Your Devonshire crew,
For sending so late
To one of my state.
But 'tis Reynolds's way
From wisdom to stray,
And Angelica's whim

To be frolick like him

But alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser, When both have been spoil'd in to-day's "Advertiser ?"

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

EPITAPH ON DR PARNELL.*

This tomb inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.

From "The Haunch of Venison," &c., 1776.

What art but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON:*

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked 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 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 pronounce,
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 Byrne.†
To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch,

*First published in 1776, but probably written in 1771. Lord Clare's nephew.

So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose-
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Munroe'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 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 centred,

An acquaintance, a friend, as he call'd himself, enter'd--

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me.

"What have we got here?-Why this is good eating!

Your own, I suppose- —or is it in waiting?"—

66

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 pleased 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 a dinner.
What say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.

* Probably Howard, author of "The Choice Spirits' Museum;" Colman; Hogarth; and Paul Heffernan, M.D., author of " Dramatic Genius," &c.