[Footnote 1: Ovid, "Metam.," i, 383.]




LOUISA[1] TO STREPHON. 1724


Ah! Strephon, how can you despise
Her, who without thy pity dies!
To Strephon I have still been true,
And of as noble blood as you;
Fair issue of the genial bed,
A virgin in thy bosom bred:
Embraced thee closer than a wife;
When thee I leave, I leave my life.
Why should my shepherd take amiss,
That oft I wake thee with a kiss?
Yet you of every kiss complain;
Ah! is not love a pleasing pain?
A pain which every happy night
You cure with ease and with delight;
With pleasure, as the poet sings,
Too great for mortals less than kings.
  Chloe, when on thy breast I lie,
Observes me with revengeful eye:
If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails,
She'll tear me with her desperate nails;
And with relentless hands destroy
The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a spurious race;
They all were born from thy embrace.
  Consider, Strephon, what you do;
For, should I die for love of you,
I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost;
And all my kin, (a numerous host,)
Who down direct our lineage bring
From victors o'er the Memphian king;
Renown'd in sieges and campaigns,
Who never fled the bloody plains:
Who in tempestuous seas can sport,
And scorn the pleasures of a court;
From whom great Sylla[2] found his doom,
Who scourged to death that scourge of Rome,
Shall on thee take a vengeance dire;
Thou like Alcides[3] shalt expire,
When his envenom'd shirt he wore,
And skin and flesh in pieces tore.
Nor less that shirt, my rival's gift,
Cut from the piece that made her shift,
Shall in thy dearest blood be dyed,
And make thee tear thy tainted hide.

[Footnote 1: The solution is, _phtheirhiasis_ morbus pedicularis. With
this piece may be read Peter Pindar's epic, "The Lousiad."--W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Plutarch tells how Sylla's body was so corrupted with these
vermin, that they streamed from him into every place: _pasan esthГЄta kai
loutron kai aponimma kai sition anapimplasthai tou reumatos ekeinon kai
tes phthoras. tosouton exenthei._ "Vita Syllae," xxxvi.--_W. E. B._]


[Footnote 3: Hercules, who died from wearing the shirt (given him by his
wife as a charm against his infidelities) stained with the blood of
Nessus, the centaur, whom Hercules had slain with a poisoned arrow. Ovid,
"Epist. Heroid. Deianira Herculi," and "Metam.," lib. ix,
101.--_W. E. B._]




A MAYPOLE. 1725

Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round,
And yet I firmly stand my ground:
All over naked I am seen,
And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land
E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand.
I join'd them fairly with a ring;
Nor can our parson blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke;
Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,
I'm but an idol raised on high;
And once a weaver in our town,
A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years,
And then the jovial cavaliers
To their old post restored all three--
I mean the church, the king, and me.


ON THE MOON

I with borrow'd silver shine
What you see is none of mine.
First I show you but a quarter,
Like the bow that guards the Tartar:
Then the half, and then the whole,
Ever dancing round the pole.

What will raise your admiration,
I am not one of God's creation,
But sprung, (and I this truth maintain,)
Like Pallas, from my father's brain.
And after all, I chiefly owe
My beauty to the shades below.
Most wondrous forms you see me wear,
A man, a woman, lion, bear,
A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,
All figures Heaven or earth can yield;
Like Daphne sometimes in a tree;
Yet am not one of all you see.




ON A CIRCLE

I'm up and down, and round about,
Yet all the world can't find me out;
Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,
They never yet could find my measure.
I'm found almost in every garden,
Nay, in the compass of a farthing.
There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
Can move an inch except I will.




ON INK

I am jet black, as you may see,
  The son of pitch and gloomy night:
Yet all that know me will agree,
  I'm dead except I live in light.

Sometimes in panegyric high,
  Like lofty Pindar, I can soar;
And raise a virgin to the sky,
  Or sink her to a pocky whore.

My blood this day is very sweet,
  To-morrow of a bitter juice;
Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,
  And so applied to different use.

Most wondrous is my magic power:
  For with one colour I can paint;
I'll make the devil a saint this hour,
  Next make a devil of a saint.

Through distant regions I can fly,
  Provide me but with paper wings;
And fairly show a reason why
  There should be quarrels among kings:

And, after all, you'll think it odd,
  When learned doctors will dispute,
That I should point the word of God,
  And show where they can best confute.

Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:
  'Tis I that must the lands convey,
And strip their clients to their coats;
  Nay, give their very souls away.




ON THE FIVE SENSES

All of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind;
Yet among us all no brother
Knows one tittle of the other;
We in frequent councils are,
And our marks of things declare,
Where, to us unknown, a clerk
Sits, and takes them in the dark.
He's the register of all
In our ken, both great and small;
By us forms his laws and rules,
He's our master, we his tools;
Yet we can with greatest ease
Turn and wind him where we please.
  One of us alone can sleep,
Yet no watch the rest will keep,
But the moment that he closes,
Every brother else reposes.
If wine's brought or victuals drest,
One enjoys them for the rest.
  Pierce us all with wounding steel,
One for all of us will feel.
  Though ten thousand cannons roar,
Add to them ten thousand more,
Yet but one of us is found
Who regards the dreadful sound.
  Do what is not fit to tell,
There's but one of us can smell.




FONTINELLA[1] TO FLORINDA

When on my bosom thy bright eyes,
  Florinda, dart their heavenly beams,
I feel not the least love surprise,
  Yet endless tears flow down in streams;
There's nought so beautiful in thee,
  But you may find the same in me.

The lilies of thy skin compare;
  In me you see them full as white:
The roses of your cheeks, I dare
  Affirm, can't glow to more delight.
Then, since I show as fine a face,
  Can you refuse a soft embrace?

Ah! lovely nymph, thou'rt in thy prime!
  And so am I, while thou art here;
But soon will come the fatal time,
  When all we see shall disappear.
'Tis mine to make a just reflection,
  And yours to follow my direction.

Then catch admirers while you may;
  Treat not your lovers with disdain;
For time with beauty flies away,
  And there is no return again.
To you the sad account I bring,
  Life's autumn has no second spring.

[Footnote 1: A fountain.]




AN ECHO

Never sleeping, still awake,
Pleasing most when most I speak;
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog, or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing,
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the lovesick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice:
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out:
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I'm vext, can't keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear;
Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit's out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.




ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS;

By something form'd, I nothing am,
Yet everything that you can name;
In no place have I ever been,
Yet everywhere I may be seen;
In all things false, yet always true,
I'm still the same--but ever new.
Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear,
Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,
Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear.
All shapes and features I can boast,
No flesh, no bones, no blood--no ghost:
All colours, without paint, put on,
And change like the cameleon.
Swiftly I come, and enter there,
Where not a chink lets in the air;
Like thought, I'm in a moment gone,
Nor can I ever be alone:
All things on earth I imitate
Faster than nature can create;
Sometimes imperial robes I wear,
Anon in beggar's rags appear;
A giant now, and straight an elf,
I'm every one, but ne'er myself;
Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice,
I move my lips, but want a voice;
I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die,
Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I?

Most things by me do rise and fall,
And, as I please, they're great and small;
Invading foes without resistance,
With ease I make to keep their distance:
Again, as I'm disposed, the foe
Will come, though not a foot they go.
Both mountains, woods, and hills, and rocks
And gamesome goats, and fleecy flocks,
And lowing herds, and piping swains,
Come dancing to me o'er the plains.
The greatest whale that swims the sea
Does instantly my power obey.
In vain from me the sailor flies,
The quickest ship I can surprise,
And turn it as I have a mind,
And move it against tide and wind.
Nay, bring me here the tallest man,
I'll squeeze him to a little span;
Or bring a tender child, and pliant,
You'll see me stretch him to a giant:
Nor shall they in the least complain,
Because my magic gives no pain.




ON TIME

Ever eating, never cloying,
All-devouring, all-destroying,
Never finding full repast,
Till I eat the world at last.


ON THE GALLOWS

There is a gate, we know full well,
That stands 'twixt Heaven, and Earth, and Hell,
Where many for a passage venture,
Yet very few are fond to enter:
Although 'tis open night and day,
They for that reason shun this way:
Both dukes and lords abhor its wood,
They can't come near it for their blood.
What other way they take to go,
Another time I'll let you know.
Yet commoners with greatest ease
Can find an entrance when they please.
The poorest hither march in state
(Or they can never pass the gate)
Like Roman generals triumphant,
And then they take a turn and jump on't,
If gravest parsons here advance,
They cannot pass before they dance;
There's not a soul that does resort here,
But strips himself to pay the porter.




ON THE VOWELS

We are little airy creatures,
All of different voice and features;
One of us in glass is set,
One of us you'll find in jet.
T'other you may see in tin,
And the fourth a box within.
If the fifth you should pursue,
It can never fly from you.




ON SNOW

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin,
No lady alive can show such a skin.
I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,
But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,
The foulest impressions I easily take.
My parent and I produce one another,
The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.




ON A CANNON

Begotten, and born, and dying with noise,
The terror of women, and pleasure of boys,
Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,
I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined.
For silver and gold I don't trouble my head,
But all I delight in is pieces of lead;
Except when I trade with a ship or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark,
No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
The moment I get one, my soul's all a-fire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.




ON A PAIR OF DICE

We are little brethren twain,
Arbiters of loss and gain,
Many to our counters run,
Some are made, and some undone:
But men find it to their cost,
Few are made, but numbers lost.
Though we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour.




ON A CANDLE

TO LADY CARTERET

Of all inhabitants on earth,
To man alone I owe my birth,
And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee,
Are all my parents more than he:
I, a virtue, strange and rare,
Make the fairest look more fair,
And myself, which yet is rarer,
Growing old, grow still the fairer.
Like sots, alone I'm dull enough,
When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff;
But, in the midst of mirth and wine,
I with double lustre shine.
Emblem of the Fair am I,
Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;
In my eye my greatest grace,
Emblem of the Cyclops' race;
Metals I like them subdue,
Slave like them to Vulcan too;
Emblem of a monarch old,
Wise, and glorious to behold;
Wasted he appears, and pale,
Watching for the public weal:
Emblem of the bashful dame,
That in secret feeds her flame,
Often aiding to impart
All the secrets of her heart;
Various is my bulk and hue,
Big like Bess, and small like Sue:
Now brown and burnish'd like a nut,
At other times a very slut;
Often fair, and soft, and tender,
Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender:
Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers,
Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours:
But whatever be my dress,
Greater be my size or less,
Swelling be my shape or small,
Like thyself I shine in all.
Clouded if my face is seen,
My complexion wan and green,
Languid like a love-sick maid,
Steel affords me present aid.
Soon or late, my date is done,
As my thread of life is spun;
Yet to cut the fatal thread
Oft revives my drooping head;
Yet I perish in my prime,
Seldom by the death of time;
Die like lovers as they gaze,
Die for those I live to please;
Pine unpitied to my urn,
Nor warm the fair for whom I burn:
Unpitied, unlamented too,
Die like all that look on you.




TO LADY CARTERET

BY DR. DELANY

I reach all things near me, and far off to boot,
Without stretching a finger, or stirring a foot;
I take them all in too, to add to your wonder,
Though many and various, and large and asunder,
Without jostling or crowding they pass side by side,
Through a wonderful wicket, not half an inch wide;
Then I lodge them at ease in a very large store,
Of no breadth or length, with a thousand things more.
All this I can do without witchcraft or charm,
Though sometimes they say, I bewitch and do harm;
Though cold, I inflame; and though quiet, invade:
And nothing can shield from my spell but a shade.
A thief that has robb'd you, or done you disgrace,
In magical mirror, I'll show you his face:
Nay, if you'll believe what the poets have said,
They'll tell you I kill, and can call back the dead.
Like conjurers safe in my circle I dwell;
I love to look black too, it heightens my spell;
Though my magic is mighty in every hue,
Who see all my power must see it in you.




ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT

WITH half an eye your riddle I spy,
I observe your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket,
And whatever passes is strain'd through glasses.
You say it is quiet: I flatly deny it.
It wanders about, without stirring out;
No passion so weak but gives it a tweak;
Love, joy, and devotion, set it always in motion.
And as for trie tragic effects of its magic,
Which you say it can kill, or revive at its will,
The dead are all sound, and they live above ground:
After all you have writ, it cannot be wit;
Which plainly does follow, since it flies from Apollo.
Its cowardice such it cries at a touch;
'Tis a perfect milksop, grows drunk with a drop,
Another great fault, it cannot bear salt:
And a hair can disarm it of every charm.




TO LADY CARTERET

BY DR. SWIFT

FROM India's burning clime I'm brought,
With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.
Not Iris, when she paints the sky,
Can show more different hues than I;
Nor can she change her form so fast,
I'm now a sail, and now a mast.
I here am red, and there am green,
A beggar there, and here a queen.
I sometimes live in house of hair,
And oft in hand of lady fair.
I please the young, I grace the old,
And am at once both hot and cold.
Say what I am then, if you can,
And find the rhyme, and you're the man.




ANSWERED BY DR. SHERIDAN

Your house of hair, and lady's hand,
At first did put me to a stand.
I have it now--'tis plain enough--
Your hairy business is a muff.
Your engine fraught with cooling gales,
At once so like your masts and sails;
Your thing of various shape and hue
Must be some painted toy, I knew;
And for the rhyme to you're the man,
What fits it better than a fan?




A RIDDLE

I'm wealthy and poor,
I'm empty and full,
I'm humble and proud,
I'm witty and dull.
I'm foul and yet fair:
I'm old, and yet young;
I lie with Moll Kerr,
And toast Mrs. Long.




ANSWER, BY MR. F----R

In rigging he's rich, though in pocket he's poor,
He cringes to courtiers, and cocks to the cits;
Like twenty he dresses, but looks like threescore;
He's a wit to the fools, and a fool to the wits.
Of wisdom he's empty, but full of conceit;
He paints and perfumes while he rots with the scab;
'Tis a beau you may swear by his sense and his gait;
He boasts of a beauty and lies with a drab.




A LETTER TO DR. HELSHAM

SIR,
  Pray discruciate what follows.

The dullest beast, and gentleman's liquor,
When young is often due to the vicar,[1]

The dullest of beasts, and swine's delight,
Make up a bird very swift of flight.[2]

The dullest beast, when high in stature,
And another of royal nature,
For breeding is a useful creature.[3]

The dullest beast, and a party distress'd,
When too long, is bad at best.[4]

The dullest beast, and the saddle it wears,
Is good for partridge, not for hares.[5]

The dullest beast, and kind voice of a cat,
Will make a horse go, though he be not fat.[6]

The dullest of beasts and of birds in the air,
Is that by which all Irishmen swear.[7]

The dullest beast, and famed college for Teagues,
Is a person very unfit for intrigues.[8]

The dullest beast, and a cobbler's tool,
With a boy that is only fit for school,
In summer is very pleasant and cool.[9]

The dullest beast, and that which you kiss,
May break a limb of master or miss.[10]

Of serpent kind, and what at distance kills,
Poor mistress Dingley oft hath felt its bills.[11]

The dullest beast, and eggs unsound,
Without it I rather would walk on the ground.[12]

The dullest beast, and what covers a house,
Without it a writer is not worth a louse.[13]

The dullest beast, and scandalous vermin,
Of roast or boil'd, to the hungry is charming.[14]

The dullest beast, and what's cover'd with crust,
There's nobody but a fool that would trust.[15]

The dullest beast, and mending highways,
Is to a horse an evil disease.[16]

The dullest beast, and a hole in the ground,
Will dress a dinner worth five pound.[17]

The dullest beast, and what doctors pretend,
The cook-maid often has by the end.[18]

The dullest beast, and fish for lent,
May give you a blow you'll for ever repent.[19]

The dullest beast, and a shameful jeer,
Without it a lady should never appear.[20]

_Wednesday Night_.

I writ all these before I went to bed. Pray explain them for me, because
I cannot do it.


[Footnote 1: A swine.]
[Footnote 2: A swallow.]
[Footnote 3: A stallion.]
[Footnote 4: A sail.]
[Footnote 5: A spaniel.]
[Footnote 6: A spur.]
[Footnote 7: A soul.]
[Footnote 8: A sloven.]
[Footnote 9: A sallad.]
[Footnote 10: A slip.]
[Footnote 11: A sparrow.]
[Footnote 12: A saddle.]
[Footnote 13: A style.]
[Footnote 14: A slice.]
[Footnote 15: A spy.]
[Footnote 16: A spavin.]
[Footnote 17: A spit.]
[Footnote 18: A skewer.]
[Footnote 19: Assault.]
[Footnote 20: A smock.]




PROBATUR ALITER

A long-ear'd beast, and a field-house for cattle,
Among the coals doth often rattle.[1]

A long-ear'd beast, a bird that prates,
The bridegrooms' first gift to their mates,
Is by all pious Christians thought,
In clergymen the greatest fault.[2]

A long-ear'd beast, and woman of Endor,
If your wife be a scold, that will mend her.[3]

With a long-ear'd beast, and medicine's use,
Cooks make their fowl look tight and spruce.[4]

A long-ear'd beast, and holy fable,
Strengthens the shoes of half the rabble.[5]

A long-ear'd beast, and Rhenish wine,
Lies in the lap of ladies fine.[6]

A long-ear'd beast, and Flanders College,
Is Dr. T----l, to my knowledge.[7]

A long-ear'd beast, and building knight,
Censorious people do in spite.[8]

A long-ear'd beast, and bird of night,
We sinners art too apt to slight.[9]

A long-ear'd beast, and shameful vermin,
A judge will eat, though clad in ermine.[10]

A long-ear'd beast, and Irish cart,
Can leave a mark, and give a smart.[11]

A long-ear'd beast, in mud to lie,
No bird in air so swift can fly.[12]

A long-ear'd beast, and a sputt'ring old Whig,
I wish he were in it, and dancing a jig.[13]

A long-ear'd beast, and liquor to write,
Is a damnable smell both morning and night.[14]

A long-ear'd beast, and the child of a sheep,
At Whist they will make a desperate sweep.[15]

A beast long-ear'd, and till midnight you stay,
Will cover a house much better than clay.[16]

A long-ear'd beast, and the drink you love best,
You call him a sloven in earnest for jest.[17]

A long-ear'd beast, and the sixteenth letter,
I'd not look at all unless I look'd better.[18]

A long-ear'd beast give me, and eggs unsound,
Or else I will not ride one inch of ground.[19]

A long-ear'd beast, another name for jeer,
To ladies' skins there nothing comes so near.[20]

A long-ear'd beast, and kind noise of a cat,
Is useful in journeys, take notice of that.[21]

A long-ear'd beast, and what seasons your beef,
On such an occasion the law gives relief.[22]

A long-ear'd beast, a thing that force must drive in,
Bears up his house, that's of his own contriving.[23]

[Footnote 1: A shovel.]
[Footnote 2: Aspiring.]
[Footnote 3: A switch.]
[Footnote 4: A skewer.]
[Footnote 5: A sparable; a small nail in a shoe.]
[Footnote 6: A shock.]
[Footnote 7: A sloven.]
[Footnote 8: Asperse. (Pearce was an architect, who built the
Parliament-House, Dublin.)]
[Footnote 9: A soul.]
[Footnote 10: A slice.]
[Footnote 11: A scar.]
[Footnote 12: A swallow.]
[Footnote 13: A sty.]
[Footnote 14: A sink.]
[Footnote 15: A slam.]
[Footnote 16: A slate.]
[Footnote 17: A swine.]
[Footnote 18: Askew.]
[Footnote 19: A saddle.]
[Footnote 20: A smock.]
[Footnote 21: A spur.]
[Footnote 22: Assault.]
[Footnote 23: A snail.]




POEMS COMPOSED AT MARKET HILL


ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL.[1] 1727


At Market-Hill, as well appears
  By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
  A spacious thorn before the gate.

Hither came every village maid,
  And on the boughs her garland hung,
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
  Secure from satyrs sat and sung.

Sir Archibald,[2] that valorous knight.
  The lord of all the fruitful plain,
Would come to listen with delight,
  For he was fond of rural strain.

(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name
  Shall stand for ages on record,
By Scottish bards of highest fame,
  Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.[3])

But time with iron teeth, I ween,
  Has canker'd all its branches round;
No fruit or blossom to be seen,
  Its head reclining toward the ground.

This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,
  Which must, alas! no longer stand,
Behold the cruel Dean in scorn
  Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.

Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,
  Astonish'd gave a dreadful shriek;
And mother Tellus trembled so,
  She scarce recover'd in a week.

The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd,
  In prudence and compassion sent
(For none could tell whose turn was next)
  Sad omens of the dire event.

The magpie, lighting on the stock,
  Stood chattering with incessant din:
And with her beak gave many a knock,
  To rouse and warn the nymph within.

The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,
  The ruin of her ancient seat;
And fled in haste, with all her brood,
  To seek a more secure retreat.

Last trotted forth the gentle swine,
  To ease her itch against the stump,
And dismally was heard to whine,
  All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump.

The nymph who dwells in every tree,
  (If all be true that poets chant,)
Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree,
  Must die with her expiring plant.

Thus, when the gentle Spina found
  The thorn committed to her care,
Received its last and deadly wound,
  She fled, and vanish'd into air.

But from the root a dismal groan
  First issuing struck the murderer's ears:
And, in a shrill revengeful tone,
  This prophecy he trembling hears:

"Thou chief contriver of my fall,
  Relentless Dean, to mischief born;
My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,
  Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.

"And thy confederate dame, who brags
  That she condemn'd me to the fire,
Shall rend her petticoats to rags,
  And wound her legs with every brier.

"Nor thou, Lord Arthur,[4] shall escape;
  To thee I often call'd in vain,
Against that assassin in crape;
  Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain:

"Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,
  Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse;
Since you could see me treated so,
  (An old retainer to your house:)

"May that fell Dean, by whose command
  Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,
Not leave a thistle on thy land;
  Then who will own thee for a Scot?

"Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
  Through all my empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges join in leagues,
  Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

"And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
  Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hallow'd timber down;

"When thou, suspended high in air,
  Diest on a more ignoble tree,
(For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,)
  Then, bloody caitiff! think on me."


[Footnote 1: A village near the seat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the
Dean made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much
admired by the knight. Yet the Dean, in one of his unaccountable humours,
gave directions for cutting it down in the absence of Sir Arthur, who
was, of course, highly incensed. By way of making his peace, the Dean
wrote this poem; which had the desired effect.]

[Footnote 2: Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.]

[Footnote 3: Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of
Stirling, who were both friends of Sir Archibald, and famous for their
poetry.]

[Footnote 4: Sir Arthur Acheson.]




TO DEAN SWIFT
BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728


Good cause have I to sing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier:
He, that of every ear's the charmer,
Now condescends to be my farmer,
And grace my villa with his strains;
Lives such a bard on British plains?
No; not in all the British court;
For none but witlings there resort,
Whose names and works (though dead) are made
Immortal by the Dunciad;
And, sure as monument of brass,
Their fame to future times shall pass;
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of brazen knight they vainly sung;
A subject for their genius fit;
He dares defy both sense and wit.
What dares he not? He can, we know it,
A laureat make that is no poet;
A judge, without the least pretence
To common law, or common sense;
A bishop that is no divine;
And coxcombs in red ribbons shine:
Nay, he can make, what's greater far,
A middle state 'twixt peace and war;
And say, there shall; for years together,
Be peace and war, and both, and neither.
Happy, O Market-Hill! at least,
That court and courtiers have no taste:
You never else had known the Dean,
But, as of old, obscurely lain;
All things gone on the same dull track,
And Drapier's-Hill been still Drumlack;
But now your name with Penshurst vies,
And wing'd with fame shall reach the skies.




DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S
IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND

The Dean would visit Market-Hill,
  Our invitation was but slight;
I said--"Why let him, if he will:"
  And so I bade Sir Arthur write.

His manners would not let him wait,
  Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
  And so we see him at our gate
  Three days before he was expected,

After a week, a month, a quarter,
  And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
  Though not a soul would have him stay.

I've said enough to make him blush,
  Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,
  Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, my dear, may let him know,
  In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
  And that he may command the chaise.

Or you may say--"My wife intends,
  Though I should be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite some friends,
  And, sir, I know you hate a crowd."

Or, "Mr. Dean--I should with joy
  Beg you would here continue still,
But we must go to Aghnecloy;[1]
  Or Mr. Moore will take it ill."

The house accounts are daily rising;
  So much his stay doth swell the bills:
My dearest life, it is surprising,
  How much he eats, how much he swills.

His brace of puppies how they stuff!
  And they must have three meals a-day,
Yet never think they get enough;
  His horses too eat all our hay.

O! if I could, how I would maul
  His tallow face and wainscot paws,
His beetle brows, and eyes of wall,
  And make him soon give up the cause!

Must I be every moment chid
  With [2] _Skinnybonia, Snipe_, and _Lean?_
O! that I could but once be rid
  Of this insulting tyrant Dean!

[Footnote 1: The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.]

[Footnote 2: The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. See "My
Lady's Lamentation," next page.--_W. E. B._]




ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL

Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
  Though none can tell which of us first shall die.


ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT

We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
  May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.




EPITAPH
IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE


Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
  Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly served to make folks laugh,
  When wit and mirth were scarce.

Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
  What signifies to cry?
Dickies enough are still behind,
  To laugh at by and by.

Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.




MY LADY'S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT
AGAINST THE DEAN

JULY 28, 1728

Sure never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teazed day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe,
With Skinny and Snipe:[2],
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.

The Dean never stops,
When he opens his chops;
I'm quite overrun
With rebus and pun.
  Before he came here,
To spunge for good cheer,
I sat with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old gums,
Or scratching my nose
And jogging my toes;
But at present, forsooth,
I must not rub a tooth.
When my elbows he sees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And just as I handle 'em
Moving all like a pendulum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops
From my head to my heels,
Like a clock without wheels;
I sink in the spleen,
A useless machine.
  If he had his will,
I should never sit still:
He comes with his whims
I must move my limbs;
I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath,
He tires me to death.
By the worst of all squires,
Thro' bogs and thro' briers,
Where a cow would be startled,
I'm in spite of my heart led;
And, say what I will,
Haul'd up every hill;
Till, daggled and tatter'd,
My spirits quite shatter'd,
I return home at night,
And fast, out of spite:
For I'd rather be dead,
Than it e'er should be said,
I was better for him,
In stomach or limb.
  But now to my diet;
No eating in quiet,
He's still finding fault,
Too sour or too salt:
The wing of a chick
I hardly can pick:
But trash without measure
I swallow with pleasure.
  Next, for his diversion,
He rails at my person.
What court breeding this is!
He takes me to pieces:
From shoulder to flank
I'm lean and am lank;
My nose, long and thin,
Grows down to my chin;
My chin will not stay,
But meets it halfway;
My fingers, prolix,
Are ten crooked sticks:
He swears my el--bows
Are two iron crows,
Or sharp pointed rocks,
And wear out my smocks:
To 'scape them, Sir Arthur
Is forced to lie farther,
Or his sides they would gore
Like the tusks of a boar.
  Now changing the scene
But still to the Dean;
He loves to be bitter at
A lady illiterate;
If he sees her but once,
He'll swear she's a dunce;
Can tell by her looks
A hater of books;
Thro' each line of her face
Her folly can trace;
Which spoils every feature
Bestow'd her by nature;
But sense gives a grace
To the homeliest face:
Wise books and reflection
Will mend the complexion:
(A civil divine!
I suppose, meaning mine!)
No lady who wants them,
Can ever be handsome.
  I guess well enough
What he means by this stuff:
He haws and he hums,
At last out it comes:
What, madam? No walking,
No reading, nor talking?
You're now in your prime,
Make use of your time.
Consider, before
You come to threescore,
How the hussies will fleer
Where'er you appear;
"That silly old puss
Would fain be like us:
What a figure she made
In her tarnish'd brocade!"
  And then he grows mild:
Come, be a good child:
If you are inclined
To polish your mind,
Be adored by the men
Till threescore and ten,
And kill with the spleen
The jades of sixteen;
I'll show you the way;
Read six hours a-day.
The wits will frequent ye,
And think you but twenty.
[To make you learn faster,
I'll be your schoolmaster
And leave you to choose
The books you peruse.[3]]
  Thus was I drawn in;
Forgive me my sin.
At breakfast he'll ask
An account of my task.
Put a word out of joint,
Or miss but a point,
He rages and frets,
His manners forgets;
And as I am serious,
Is very imperious.
No book for delight
Must come in my sight;
But, instead of new plays,
Dull Bacon's Essays,
And pore every day on
That nasty Pantheon.[4]
If I be not a drudge,
Let all the world judge.
'Twere better be blind,
Than thus be confined.
  But while in an ill tone,
I murder poor Milton,
The Dean you will swear,
Is at study or prayer.
He's all the day sauntering,
With labourers bantering,
Among his colleagues,
A parcel of Teagues,
Whom he brings in among us
And bribes with mundungus.
 [He little believes
How they laugh in their sleeves.]
Hail, fellow, well met,
All dirty and wet:
Find out, if you can,
Who's master, who's man;
Who makes the best figure,
The Dean or the digger;
And which is the best
At cracking a jest.
[Now see how he sits
Perplexing his wits
In search of a motto
To fix on his grotto.]
How proudly he talks
Of zigzags and walks,
And all the day raves
Of cradles and caves;
And boasts of his feats,
His grottos and seats;
Shows all his gewgaws,
And gapes for applause;
A fine occupation
For one in his station!
A hole where a rabbit
Would scorn to inhabit,
Dug out in an hour;
He calls it a bower.
  But, O! how we laugh,
To see a wild calf
Come, driven by heat,
And foul the green seat;
Or run helter-skelter,
To his arbour for shelter,
Where all goes to ruin
The Dean has been doing:
The girls of the village
Come flocking for pillage,
Pull down the fine briers
And thorns to make fires;
But yet are so kind
To leave something behind:
No more need be said on't,
I smell when I tread on't.
  Dear friend, Doctor Jinny.
If I could but win ye,
Or Walmsley or Whaley,
To come hither daily,
Since fortune, my foe,
Will needs have it so,
That I'm, by her frowns,
Condemn'd to black gowns;
No squire to be found
The neighbourhood round;
(For, under the rose,
I would rather choose those)
If your wives will permit ye,
Come here out of pity,
To ease a poor lady,
And beg her a play-day.
So may you be seen
No more in the spleen;
May Walmsley give wine
Like a hearty divine!
May Whaley disgrace
Dull Daniel's whey-face!
And may your three spouses
Let you lie at friends' houses!


[Footnote 1: Lady Acheson.]

[Footnote 2: See _ante_, p.94 _W.--W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 3: Added from the Dean's manuscript.]

[Footnote 4: "The Pantheon," containing the mythological systems of the
Greeks and Romans, by Andrew Tooke, A.M., first published, 1713. The
little work became very popular. The copy I have is of the thirty-sixth
edition, with plates, 1831. It is still in demand, as it deserves to be.
Compare Leigh Hunt's remark on the illustrations to the "Pantheon," cited
by Mr. Coleridge in his notes to "Don Juan," Canto I, St. xli, Byron's
Works, edit. 1903.--_W. E. B._]




A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728

DERMOT, SHEELAH


A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight;
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1]
While each with stubbed knife removed the roots,
That raised between the stones their daily shoots;
As at their work they sate in counterview,
With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew.
Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain,
The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.

DERMOT

My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,
Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt;
My spud these nettles from the stones can part;
No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.

SHEELAH

My love for gentle Dermot faster grows,
Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.
Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O!
Love rooted out, again will never grow.

DERMOT

No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:
(I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur's[2] sake)
Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;
The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.

SHEELAH

Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;
This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;
Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.

DERMOT

At an old stubborn root I chanced to tug,
When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug;
A longer ha'p'orth [3] never did I see;
This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me.

SHEELAH

In at the pantry door, this morn I slipt,
And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:
Dennis[4] was out, and I got hither safe;
And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half.

DERMOT

When you saw Tady at long bullets play,
You sate and loused him all a sunshine day:
How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,
Or crack such lice as his between your nails?

SHEELAH

When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch,
I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch;
Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts?
I almost wish'd this spud were in your guts.

DERMOT

If Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide;
Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side:
But, if I ever touch her lips again,
May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain!

SHEELAH

Dermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could hold
Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold;
Him on my lap you never more shall see;
Or may I lose my weeding knife--and thee!

DERMOT

O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass,
A pair of brogues [5] to bear thee dry to mass!
But see, where Norah with the sowins [6] comes--
Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums.


[Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson, whose great-grandfather was Sir
Archibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.]

[Footnote 2: Who was a great lover of Scotland.]

[Footnote 3: Halfpenny-worth.]

[Footnote 4: Sir Arthur's butler.]

[Footnote 5: Shoes with flat low heels.]

[Footnote 6: A sort of flummery.]




THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED:

WHETHER HAMILTON'S BAWN[1] SHOULD BE TURNED INTO A BARRACK OR MALT-HOUSE.
1729

THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION

The author of the following poem is said to be Dr. J. S. D. S. P. D. who
writ it, as well as several other copies of verses of the like kind, by
way of amusement, in the family of an honourable gentleman in the north
of Ireland, where he spent a summer, about two or three years ago.[2] A
certain very great person,[3] then in that kingdom, having heard much of
this poem, obtained a copy from the gentleman, or, as some say, the lady
in whose house it was written, from whence I know not by what accident
several other copies were transcribed full of errors. As I have a great
respect for the supposed author, I have procured a true copy of the poem,
the publication whereof can do him less injury than printing any of those
incorrect ones which run about in manuscript, and would infallibly be
soon in the press, if not thus prevented. Some expressions being peculiar
to Ireland, I have prevailed on a gentleman of that kingdom to explain
them, and I have put the several explanations in their proper
places.--_First Edition_.


Thus spoke to my lady the knight[2] full of care,
"Let me have your advice in a weighty affair.
This Hamilton's bawn, while it sticks in my hand
I lose by the house what I get by the land;
But how to dispose of it to the best bidder,
For a barrack[6] or malt-house, we now must consider.
  "First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house,
Here I have computed the profit will fall t'us:
There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain,
I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain;
A handsome addition for wine and good cheer,
Three dishes a-day, and three hogsheads a-year;
With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored;
No little scrub joint shall come on my board;
And you and the Dean no more shall combine
To stint me at night to one bottle of wine;
Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin
A stone and a quarter of beef from my sir-loin.
If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant;
My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on't:
In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent,
Whatever they give me, I must be content,
Or join with the court in every debate;
And rather than that, I would lose my estate."
  Thus ended the knight; thus began his meek wife:
"It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life.
I'm grown a mere _mopus_; no company comes
But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull rums.[5]
With parsons what lady can keep herself clean?
I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean.
But if you will give us a barrack, my dear,
The captain I'm sure will always come here;
I then shall not value his deanship a straw,
For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe;
Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert,
Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert;
That men of his coat should be minding their prayers,
And not among ladies to give themselves airs."
  Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain;
The knight his opinion resolved to maintain.
  But Hannah,[6] who listen'd to all that was past,
And could not endure so vulgar a taste,
As soon as her ladyship call'd to be dress'd,
Cried, "Madam, why surely my master's possess'd,
Sir Arthur the maltster! how fine it will sound!
I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground.
But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good,
When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood.[7]
And now my dream's out; for I was a-dream'd
That I saw a huge rat--O dear, how I scream'd!
And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes;
And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill news.
  "Dear Madam, had you but the spirit to tease,
You might have a barrack whenever you please:
And, madam, I always believed you so stout,
That for twenty denials you would not give out.
If I had a husband like him, I _purtest,_
Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest;
And, rather than come in the same pair of sheets
With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets:
But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent,
And worry him out, till he gives his consent.
Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think,
An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink:
For if a new crotchet comes into my brain,
I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain.
I fancy already a barrack contrived
At Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arrived;
Of this to be sure, Sir Arthur has warning,
And waits on the captain betimes the next morning.
  "Now see, when they meet, how their honours behave;
'Noble captain, your servant'--'Sir Arthur, your slave;
You honour me much'--'The honour is mine.'--
''Twas a sad rainy night'--'But the morning is fine.'--
'Pray, how does my lady?'--'My wife's at your service.'--
'I think I have seen her picture by Jervas.'--
'Good-morrow, good captain'--'I'll wait on you down'--
'You shan't stir a foot'--'You'll think me a clown.'--
'For all the world, captain, not half an inch farther'--
'You must be obey'd--Your servant, Sir Arthur!
My humble respects to my lady unknown.'--
'I hope you will use my house as your own.'"
  "Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate,
Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate."
  "Pray, madam, be quiet: what was it I said?
You had like to have put it quite out of my head.
Next day to be sure, the captain will come,
At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum.
Now, madam, observe how he marches in state:
The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate:
Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow.
Tantara, tantara; while all the boys holla.
See now comes the captain all daub'd with gold lace:
O la! the sweet gentleman! look in his face;
And see how he rides like a lord of the land,
With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand;
And his horse, the dear _creter_, it prances and rears;
With ribbons in knots at its tail and its ears:
At last comes the troop, by word of command,
Drawn up in our court; when the captain cries, STAND!
Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen,
For sure I had dizen'd you out like a queen.
The captain, to show he is proud of the favour,
Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver;
(His beaver is cock'd: pray, madam, mark that,
For a captain of horse never takes off his hat,
Because he has never a hand that is idle,
For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle;)
Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air,
As a compliment due to a lady so fair;
(How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt!)
Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the hilt.
Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin:
'Pray, captain, be pleased to alight and walk in.'
The captain salutes you with congee profound,
And your ladyship curtseys half way to the ground.
'Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us;
I'm sure he'll be proud of the honour you do us;
And, captain, you'll do us the favour to stay,
And take a short dinner here with us to-day:
You're heartily welcome; but as for good cheer,
You come in the very worst time of the year;
If I had expected so worthy a guest--'
'Lord, madam! your ladyship sure is in jest;
You banter me, madam; the kingdom must grant--'
'You officers, captain, are so complaisant!'"--
  "Hist, hussey, I think I hear somebody coming "--
"No madam: 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming.
To shorten my tale, (for I hate a long story,)
The captain at dinner appears in his glory;
The dean and the doctor[8] have humbled their pride,
For the captain's entreated to sit by your side;
And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first;
The parsons for envy are ready to burst.
The servants, amazed, are scarce ever able
To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table;
And Molly and I have thrust in our nose,
To peep at the captain in all his fine _clo'es._
Dear madam, be sure he's a fine spoken man,
Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran;
And, 'madam,' says he, 'if such dinners you give,
You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live.
I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose;
But the devil's as welcome, wherever he goes:
G--d d--n me! they bid us reform and repent,
But, z--s! by their looks, they never keep Lent:
Mister curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid
You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid:
I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand
In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band:
(For the Dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny,
That the captain supposed he was curate to Jinny.)
'Whenever you see a cassock and gown,
A hundred to one but it covers a clown.
Observe how a parson comes into a room;
G--d d--n me, he hobbles as bad as my groom;
A _scholard_, when just from his college broke loose,
Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose;
Your Noveds, and Bluturks, and Omurs,[9] and stuff
By G--, they don't signify this pinch of snuff.
To give a young gentleman right education,
The army's the only good school in the nation:
My schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a fool,
But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school;
I never could take to my book for the blood o' me,
And the puppy confess'd he expected no good o' me.
He caught me one morning coquetting his wife,
But he maul'd me, I ne'er was so maul'd in my life: [10]
So I took to the road, and, what's very odd,
The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G--.
Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to say,
But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day.
  "Never since I was born did I hear so much wit,
And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should split.
So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the Dean,
As who should say, 'Now, am I skinny[11] and lean?'
But he durst not so much as once open his lips,
And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips."
Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk,
Till she heard the Dean call, "Will your ladyship walk?"
Her ladyship answers, "I'm just coming down:"
Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown,
Although it was plain in her heart she was glad,
Cried, "Hussey, why sure the wench is gone mad!
How could these chimeras get into your brains!--
Come hither and take this old gown for your pains.
But the Dean, if this secret should come to his ears,
Will never have done with his gibes and his jeers:
For your life, not a word of the matter I charge ye:
Give me but a barrack, a fig for the clergy."


[Footnote 1: A bawn was a place near the house, enclosed with mud or
stone walls, to keep the cattle from being stolen in the night, now
little used.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 2: Sir Arthur Acheson, at whose seat this was written.]

[Footnote 3: John, Lord Carteret, then Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, since
Earl of Granville, in right of his mother.]

[Footnote 4: The army in Ireland was lodged in strong buildings, called
barracks. See "Verses on his own Death," and notes, vol. i,
247.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: A cant-word in Ireland for a poor country clergyman.]

[Footnote 6: My lady's waiting-woman.]

[Footnote 7: Two of Sir Arthur's managers.]

[Footnote 8: Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood.]

[Footnote 9: Ovids, Plutarchs, Homers.]

[Footnote 10: These four lines were added by Swift in his own copy of the
Miscellanies, edit. 1732.--_W. E. B._]