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At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen; At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing tareen ; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made

hot; In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my atter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian, So there I sat stuck, like a borse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd ine most, was that d-'d Scottish

rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his

brogue : 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 l've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' ' The tripe,' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate

cheek, ' I could dinc 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.' "Oho!' quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's 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, l'll still keep a corner for that.'

We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out; • We'll all keep a corner', was echocd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd 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 ont the pasty' on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes dropAnd now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, its bat labour misplac'd, To send such good verses to one of your taste; You've got an odd something--a kind of discerningA relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That yon

think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in yonr habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

RETALIATION:

A Poem ;

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV., AFTER

THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

:

D

Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionaliy dined at the St. James's coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.

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