Here, porter-this venison with me to Mile-end:

No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself”*—
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour 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 nine),
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke could not come;
"For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, 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 thinks he writes 'Cinna'-he owns to 'Panurge.'"
While thus he described them by trade and by name.
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen;

At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there was spinnage, and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round.
But what vex'd me most was that d-
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue-

-'d Scottish rogue,

From a letter from his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, to Lady Grosvenor.

And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on:

Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.”— "The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, "I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners, so pretty and small;

But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."-
"Oh-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice,
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;
There's a pasty.". "A pasty!" repeated the Jew,
"I don't care if I keep a corner for't too."—
"What the de'il, mon, a pasty?" re-echoed the Scot;
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot."-
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out.—
"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid:
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste.
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning,
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.*

Overture. A solemn dirge.
Air.-Trio.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of wo!
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below.

Chorus.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN speaker.

The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour

Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them; but the good agree

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good;

Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns to fame. Blest spirit, thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!

Mother of George III. The piece was performed at the establishment of Mrs Cornely in Soho Square, Feb. 20, 1772. The advertisement describes it as more properly "a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short."

E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven!

Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;

In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free-
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

Song.-By a MAN.

Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,

In the hopes of being blest.

Every added pang she suffers,

Some increasing good bestows,

And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN Speaker.

Yet ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate-
Death, with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.

With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross-
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

Song.-By a MAN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,

How great a king of terrors I!

If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN speaker.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life, and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on