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 Ven'son and me.