ys found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,--
Who left a pledge behind.

"She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways,--
Unless when she was sinning.

"At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew,--
But when she shut her eyes.

"Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,--
When she has walked before.

"But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,--
Her last disorder mortal.

"Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,--
She had not died to-day."

The _Haunch of Venison_, on the other hand, is a poetical letter of
thanks to Lord Clare--an easy, jocular epistle, in which the writer
has a cut or two at certain of his literary brethren. Then, as he is
looking at the venison, and determining not to send it to any such
people as Hiffernan or Higgins, who should step in but our old friend
Beau Tibbs, or some one remarkably like him in manner and speech?--

"While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smiled as he looked at 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 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 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 friend!'
Thus, snatching his hat,