[Footnote 1: The mother of Lord Alen was sister to Robert, Earl of
Kildare.--_Scott_]
[Footnote 2: John, Lord Allen, father of Joshua, the Traulus of the
satire, was son of Sir Joshua Allen, Lord Mayor of Dublin in 1673, and
grandson of John Allen, an architect in great esteem in the reign of
Queen Elizabeth._Scott_]
A FABLE OF THE LION
AND OTHER BEASTS
One time a mighty plague did pester
All beasts domestic and sylvester,
The doctors all in concert join'd,
To see if they the cause could find;
And tried a world of remedies,
But none could conquer the disease.
The lion in this consternation.
Sends out his royal proclamation,
To all his loving subjects greeting,
Appointing them a solemn meeting:
And when they're gather'd round his den,
He spoke,--My lords and gentlemen,
I hope you're met full of the sense
Of this devouring pestilence;
For sure such heavy punishment,
On common crimes is rarely sent;
It must be some important cause,
Some great infraction of the laws.
Then let us search our consciences,
And every one his faults confess:
Let's judge from biggest to the least
That he that is the foulest beast,
May for a sacrifice be given
To stop the wrath of angry Heaven.
And since no one is free from sin,
I with myself will first begin.
I have done many a thing that's ill
From a propensity to kill,
Slain many an ox, and, what is worse,
Have murder'd many a gallant horse;
Robb'd woods and fens, and, like a glutton,
Devour'd whole flocks of lamb and mutton;
Nay sometimes, for I dare not lie,
The shepherd went for company.--
He had gone on, but Chancellor Fox
Stands up----What signifies an ox?
What signifies a horse? Such things
Are honour'd when made sport for kings.
Then for the sheep, those foolish cattle,
Not fit for courage, or for battle;
And being tolerable meat,
They're good for nothing but to eat.
The shepherd too, young enemy,
Deserves no better destiny.
Sir, sir, your conscience is too nice,
Hunting's a princely exercise:
And those being all your subjects born,
Just when you please are to be torn.
And, sir, if this will not content ye,
We'll vote it nemine contradicente.
Thus after him they all confess,
They had been rogues, some more some less;
And yet by little slight excuses,
They all get clear of great abuses.
The Bear, the Tiger, beasts of flight,
And all that could but scratch and bite,
Nay e'en the Cat, of wicked nature,
That kills in sport her fellow-creature,
Went scot-free; but his gravity,
An ass of stupid memory,
Confess'd, as he went to a fair,
His back half broke with wooden-ware,
Chancing unluckily to pass
By a church-yard full of good grass,
Finding they'd open left the gate,
He ventured in, stoop'd down and ate
Hold, says Judge Wolf, such are the crimes
Have brought upon us these sad times,
'Twas sacrilege, and this vile ass
Shall die for eating holy grass.
ON THE IRISH BISHOPS.[1] 1731
Old Latimer preaching did fairly describe
A bishop, who ruled all the rest of his tribe;
And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell?
Why truly 'tis Satan, Archbishop of Hell.
And He was a primate, and He wore a mitre,
Surrounded with jewels of sulphur and nitre.
How nearly this bishop our bishops resembles!
But he has the odds, who believes and who trembles,
Could you see his grim grace, for a pound to a penny,
You'd swear it must be the baboon of Kilkenny:[2]
Poor Satan will think the comparison odious,
I wish I could find him out one more commodious;
But, this I am sure, the most reverend old dragon
Has got on the bench many bishops suffragan;
And all men believe he resides there incog,
To give them by turns an invisible jog.
Our bishops, puft up with wealth and with pride,
To hell on the backs of the clergy would ride.
They mounted and labour'd with whip and with spur
In vain--for the devil a parson would stir.
So the commons unhors'd them; and this was their doom,
On their crosiers to ride like a witch on a broom.
Though they gallop'd so fast, on the road you may find 'em,
And have left us but three out of twenty behind 'em.
Lord Bolton's good grace, Lord Carr and Lord Howard,[3]
In spite of the devil would still be untoward:
They came of good kindred, and could not endure
Their former companions should beg at their door.
When Christ was betray'd to Pilate the pretor
Of a dozen apostles but one proved a traitor:
One traitor alone, and faithful eleven;
But we can afford you six traitors in seven.
What a clutter with clippings, dividings, and cleavings!
And the clergy forsooth must take up with their leavings;
If making divisions was all their intent,
They've done it, we thank them, but not as they meant;
And so may such bishops for ever divide,
That no honest heathen would be on their side.
How should we rejoice, if, like Judas the first,
Those splitters of parsons in sunder should burst!
Now hear an allusion:--A mitre, you know,
Is divided above, but united below.
If this you consider our emblem is right;
The bishops divide, but the clergy unite.
Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread
That the mitre would never stick fast on their head:
And yet they have learnt the chief art of a sovereign,
As Machiavel taught them, "divide and ye govern."
But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said
That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head;
I'll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see't)
If your stockings were off, you could show cloven feet.
But hold, cry the bishops, and give us fair play;
Before you condemn us, hear what we can say.
What truer affections could ever be shown,
Than saving your souls by damning our own?
And have we not practised all methods to gain you;
With the tithe of the tithe of the tithe to maintain you;
Provided a fund for building you spittals!
You are only to live four years without victuals.
Content, my good lords; but let us change hands;
First take you our tithes, and give us your lands.
So God bless the Church and three of our mitres;
And God bless the Commons, for biting the biters.
[Footnote 1: Occasioned by two bills; a Bill of Residence to compel the
clergy to reside on their livings, and a Bill of Division, to divide the
church livings. See Considerations upon two Bills, "Prose Works," iii,
and Swift's letter to the Bishop of Clogher, July, 1733, in which he
describes "those two abominable bills for enslaving and beggaring the
clergy." Edit. Scott, xviii, p. 147. The bills were passed by the House
of Lords, but rejected by the Commons. See note, next page.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Ossory, who promoted the Bills. See
"Prose Works," xii, p.26.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Theophilus Bolton, Archbishop of Cashel from 1729 to 1744;
Charles Carr, Bishop of Killaloe from 1716 to 1739; and Robert Howard,
Bishop of Elphin from 1729 to 1740, who voted against the bills on a
division.--_W. E. B._]
HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX
ADDRESSED TO HUMPHRY FRENCH, ESQ.[1]
LATE LORD MAYOR OF DUBLIN
PATRON of the tuneful throng,
O! too nice, and too severe!
Think not, that my country song
Shall displease thy honest ear.
Chosen strains I proudly bring,
Which the Muses' sacred choir,
When they gods and heroes sing,
Dictate to th' harmonious lyre.
Ancient Homer, princely bard!
Just precedence still maintains,
With sacred rapture still are heard
Theban Pindar's lofty strains.
Still the old triumphant song,
Which, when hated tyrants fell,
Great Alcæus boldly sung,
Warns, instructs, and pleases well.
Nor has Time's all-darkening shade
In obscure oblivion press'd
What Anacreon laugh'd and play'd;
Gay Anacreon, drunken priest!
Gentle Sappho, love-sick muse,
Warms the heart with amorous fire;
Still her tenderest notes infuse
Melting rapture, soft desire.
Beauteous Helen, young and gay,
By a painted fopling won,
Went not first, fair nymph, astray,
Fondly pleased to be undone.
Nor young Teucer's slaughtering bow,
Nor bold Hector's dreadful sword,
Alone the terrors of the foe,
Sow'd the field with hostile blood.
Many valiant chiefs of old
Greatly lived and died before
Agamemnon, Grecian bold,
Waged the ten years' famous war.
But their names, unsung, unwept,
Unrecorded, lost and gone,
Long in endless night have slept,
And shall now no more be known.
Virtue, which the poet's care
Has not well consign'd to fame,
Lies, as in the sepulchre
Some old king, without a name.
But, O Humphry, great and free,
While my tuneful songs are read,
Old forgetful Time on thee
Dark oblivion ne'er shall spread.
When the deep cut notes shall fade
On the mouldering Parian stone,
On the brass no more be read
The perishing inscription;
Forgotten all the enemies,
Envious G----n's cursed spite,
And P----l's derogating lies,
Lost and sunk in Stygian night;
Still thy labour and thy care,
What for Dublin thou hast done,
In full lustre shall appear,
And outshine th' unclouded sun.
Large thy mind, and not untried,
For Hibernia now doth stand,
Through the calm, or raging tide,
Safe conducts the ship to land.
Falsely we call the rich man great,
He is only so that knows
His plentiful or small estate
Wisely to enjoy and use.
He in wealth or poverty,
Fortune's power alike defies;
And falsehood and dishonesty
More than death abhors and flies:
Flies from death!--no, meets it brave,
When the suffering so severe
May from dreadful bondage save
Clients, friends, or country dear.
This the sovereign man, complete;
Hero; patriot; glorious; free;
Rich and wise; and good and great;
Generous Humphry, thou art he.
[Footnote 1: Elected M. P. for Dublin, by the interest of Swift, in the
name of the Drapier. See Advice to the Freemen of the City of Dublin,
etc., "Prose Works," vii, 310.--_W. E. B._]
ON MR. PULTENEY'S[1] BEING PUT OUT OF THE COUNCIL. 1731
SIR ROBERT,[2] wearied by Will Pulteney's teasings,
Who interrupted him in all his leasings,
Resolved that Will and he should meet no more,
Full in his face Bob shuts the council door;
Nor lets him sit as justice on the bench,
To punish thieves, or lash a suburb wench.
Yet still St. Stephen's chapel open lies
For Will to enter--What shall I advise?
Ev'n quit the house, for thou too long hast sat in't,
Produce at last thy dormant ducal patent;
There near thy master's throne in shelter placed,
Let Will, unheard by thee, his thunder waste;
Yet still I fear your work is done but half,
For while he keeps his pen you are not safe.
Hear an old fable, and a dull one too;
It bears a moral when applied to you.
A hare had long escaped pursuing hounds,
By often shifting into distant grounds;
Till, finding all his artifices vain,
To save his life he leap'd into the main.
But there, alas! he could no safety find,
A pack of dogfish had him in the wind.
He scours away; and, to avoid the foe,
Descends for shelter to the shades below:
There Cerberus lay watching in his den,
(He had not seen a hare the lord knows when.)
Out bounced the mastiff of the triple head;
Away the hare with double swiftness fled;
Hunted from earth, and sea, and hell, he flies
(Fear lent him wings) for safety to the skies.
How was the fearful animal distrest!
Behold a foe more fierce than all the rest:
Sirius, the swiftest of the heavenly pack,
Fail'd but an inch to seize him by the back.
He fled to earth, but first it cost him dear;
He left his scut behind, and half an ear.
Thus was the hare pursued, though free from guilt;
Thus, Bob, shall thou be maul'd, fly where thou wilt.
Then, honest Robin, of thy corpse beware;
Thou art not half so nimble as a hare:
Too ponderous is thy bulk to mount the sky;
Nor can you go to Hell before you die.
So keen thy hunters, and thy scent so strong,
Thy turns and doublings cannot save thee long.[3]
[Footnote 1: Right Honourable William Pulteney, afterwards Earl of Bath.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, at that time Prime Minister, afterwards
first Earl of Orford.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: This hunting ended in the promotion of Will and Bob. Bob was
no longer first minister, but Earl of Orford; and Will was no longer his
opponent, but Earl of Bath.--_H_.]
ON THE WORDS BROTHER PROTESTANTS AND FELLOW CHRISTIANS,
SO FAMILIARLY USED
BY THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REPEAL OF THE TEST-ACT IN IRELAND
1733
AN inundation, says the fable,
Overflow'd a farmer's barn and stable;
Whole ricks of hay and stacks of corn
Were down the sudden current borne;
While things of heterogeneous kind
Together float with tide and wind.
The generous wheat forgot its pride,
And sail'd with litter side by side;
Uniting all, to show their amity,
As in a general calamity.
A ball of new-dropp'd horse's dung,
Mingling with apples in the throng,
Said to the pippin plump and prim,
"See, brother, how we apples swim."
Thus Lamb, renown'd for cutting corns,
An offer'd fee from Radcliff scorns,
"Not for the world--we doctors, brother,
Must take no fees of one another."
Thus to a dean some curate sloven
Subscribes, "Dear sir, your brother loving."
Thus all the footmen, shoeboys, porters,
About St. James's, cry, "We courtiers."
Thus Horace in the house will prate,
"Sir, we, the ministers of state."
Thus at the bar the booby Bettesworth,[1]
Though half a crown o'erpays his sweat's worth;
Who knows in law nor text nor margent,
Calls Singleton[2] his brother sergeant.
And thus fanatic saints, though neither in
Doctrine nor discipline our brethren,
Are brother Protestants and Christians,
As much as Hebrews and Philistines:
But in no other sense, than nature
Has made a rat our fellow-creature.
Lice from your body suck their food;
But is a louse your flesh and blood?
Though born of human filth and sweat, it
As well may say man did beget it.
And maggots in your nose and chin
As well may claim you for their kin.
Yet critics may object, why not?
Since lice are brethren to a Scot:
Which made our swarm of sects determine
Employments for their brother vermin.
But be they English, Irish, Scottish,
What Protestant can be so sottish,
While o'er the church these clouds are gathering
To call a swarm of lice his brethren?
As Moses, by divine advice,
In Egypt turn'd the dust to lice;
And as our sects, by all descriptions,
Have hearts more harden'd than Egyptians
As from the trodden dust they spring,
And, turn'd to lice, infest the king:
For pity's sake, it would be just,
A rod should turn them back to dust.
Let folks in high or holy stations
Be proud of owning such relations;
Let courtiers hug them in their bosom,
As if they were afraid to lose 'em:
While I, with humble Job, had rather
Say to corruption--"Thou'rt my father."
For he that has so little wit
To nourish vermin, may be bit.
[Footnote 1: These lines were the cause of the personal attack upon
the Dean. See "Prose Works," iv, pp. 27,261. _--W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Henry Singleton, Esq., then prime sergeant, afterwards
lord-chief-justice of the common pleas, which he resigned, and was some
time after made master of the rolls.--_F_.]
BETTESWORTH'S EXULTATION
UPON HEARING THAT HIS NAME WOULD BE TRANSMITTED TO POSTERITY
IN DR. SWIFT'S WORKS.
BY WILLIAM DUNKIN
Well! now, since the heat of my passion's abated,
That the Dean hath lampoon'd me, my mind is elated:--
Lampoon'd did I call it?--No--what was it then?
What was it?--'Twas fame to be lash'd by his pen:
For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till
E'en doomsday, a poor insignificant reptile;
Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious,
Obscure, and unheard of--but now I'm notorious:
Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one;
The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one:
If the end be obtain'd 'tis equal what portal
I enter, since I'm to be render'd immortal:
So clysters applied to the anus, 'tis said,
By skilful physicians, give ease to the head--
Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard,
A man is a man, though he should be a bastard.
Why sure 'tis some comfort that heroes should slay us,
If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Г†neas;
And who by the Drapier would not rather damn'd be,
Than demigoddized by madrigal Namby?[1]
A man is no more who has once lost his breath;
But poets convince us there's life after death.
They call from their graves the king, or the peasant;
Re-act our old deeds, and make what's past present:
And when they would study to set forth alike,
So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike,
Whatever the subject be, coward or hero,
A tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero;
To a judge 'tis all one which he fixes his eye on,
And a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion.
[Footnote 1: Ambrose Philips. See _ante_, vol. i, p. 288.--_W. E. B._]
AN EPIGRAM
The scriptures affirm (as I heard in my youth,
For indeed I ne'er read them, to speak for once truth)
That death is the wages of sin, but the just
Shall die not, although they be laid in the dust.
They say so; so be it, I care not a straw,
Although I be dead both in gospel and law;
In verse I shall live, and be read in each climate;
What more can be said of prime sergeant or primate?
While Carter and Prendergast both may be rotten,
And damn'd to the bargain, and yet be forgotten.
AN EPIGRAM
INSCRIBED TO THE HONOURABLE SERGEANT KITE
In your indignation what mercy appears,
While Jonathan's threaten'd with loss of his ears;
For who would not think it a much better choice,
By your knife to be mangled than rack'd with your voice.
If truly you [would] be revenged on the parson,
Command his attendance while you act your farce on;
Instead of your maiming, your shooting, or banging,
Bid Povey[1] secure him while you are haranguing.
Had this been your method to torture him, long since,
He had cut his own ears to be deaf to your nonsense.
[Footnote 1: Povey was sergeant-at-arms to the House of
Commons.--_Scott_.]
THE YAHOO'S OVERTHROW, OR, THE KEVAN BAYL'S NEW BALLAD,
UPON SERGEANT KITE'S INSULTING THE DEAN [1]
To the Tune of "Derry Down."
Jolly boys of St. Kevan's,[2] St. Patrick's, Donore
And Smithfield, I'll tell you, if not told before,
How Bettesworth, that booby, and scoundrel in grain,
Has insulted us all by insulting the Dean.
Knock him down, down, down, knock him down.
The Dean and his merits we every one know,
But this skip of a lawyer, where the de'il did he grow?
How greater his merit at Four Courts or House,
Than the barking of Towzer, or leap of a louse!
Knock him down, etc.
That he came from the Temple, his morals do show;
But where his deep law is, few mortals yet know:
His rhetoric, bombast, silly jests, are by far
More like to lampooning, than pleading at bar.
Knock him down, etc.
This pedler, at speaking and making of laws,
Has met with returns of all sorts but applause;
Has, with noise and odd gestures, been prating some years,
What honester folk never durst for their ears.
Knock him down, etc.
Of all sizes and sorts, the fanatical crew
Are his brother Protestants, good men and true;
Red hat, and blue bonnet, and turban's the same,
What the de'il is't to him whence the devil they came.
Knock him down, etc.
Hobbes, Tindal, and Woolston, and Collins, and Nayler,
And Muggleton, Toland, and Bradley the tailor,
Are Christians alike; and it may be averr'd,
He's a Christian as good as the rest of the herd.
Knock him down, etc.
He only the rights of the clergy debates;
Their rights! their importance! We'll set on new rates
On their tithes at half-nothing, their priesthood at less;
What's next to be voted with ease you may guess.
Knock him down, etc.
At length his old master, (I need not him name,)
To this damnable speaker had long owed a shame;
When his speech came abroad, he paid him off clean,
By leaving him under the pen of the Dean.
Knock him down, etc.
He kindled, as if the whole satire had been
The oppression of virtue, not wages of sin:
He began, as he bragg'd, with a rant and a roar;
He bragg'd how he bounced, and he swore how he swore.[3]
Knock him down, etc.
Though he cringed to his deanship in very low strains,
To others he boasted of knocking out brains,
And slitting of noses, and cropping of ears,
While his own ass's zags were more fit for the shears.
Knock him down, etc.
On this worrier of deans whene'er we can hit,
We'll show him the way how to crop and to slit;
We'll teach him some better address to afford
To the dean of all deans, though he wears not a sword.
Knock him down, etc.
We'll colt him through Kevan, St. Patrick's, Donore,
And Smithfield, as rap was ne'er colted before;
We'll oil him with kennel, and powder him with grains,
A modus right fit for insulters of deans.
Knock him down, etc.
And, when this is over, we'll make him amends,
To the Dean he shall go; they shall kiss and be friends:
But how? Why, the Dean shall to him disclose
A face for to kiss, without eyes, ears, or nose.
Knock him down, etc.
If you say this is hard on a man that is reckon'd
That sergeant-at-law whom we call Kite the Second,
You mistake; for a slave, who will coax his superiors,
May be proud to be licking a great man's posteriors.
Knock him down, etc.
What care we how high runs his passion or pride?
Though his soul he despises, he values his hide;
Then fear not his tongue, or his sword, or his knife;
He'll take his revenge on his innocent wife.
Knock him down, down, down, keep him down.
[Footnote 1: GRUB STREET JOURNAL, No. 189, August 9,1734.--"In December
last, Mr. Bettesworth, of the city of Dublin, serjeant-at-law, and member
of parliament, openly swore, before many hundreds of people, that, upon
the first opportunity, by the help of ruffians, he would murder or maim
the Dean of St. Patrick's, (Dr. Swift.) Upon which thirty-one of the
principal inhabitants of that liberty signed a paper to this effect:
'That, out of their great love and respect to the Dean, to whom the whole
kingdom hath so many obligations, they would endeavour to defend the life
and limbs of the said Dean against a certain man and all his ruffians and
murderers.' With which paper they, in the name of themselves and all the
inhabitants of the city, attended the Dean on January 8, who being
extremely ill in bed of a giddiness and deafness, and not able to receive
them, immediately dictated a very grateful answer. The occasion of a
certain man's declaration of his villanous design against the Dean, was a
frivolous unproved suspicion that he had written some lines in verse
reflecting upon him."--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 2: Kevan Bayl was a cant term for the rabble of this district
of Dublin.]
[Footnote 3: Swift, in a letter to the Duke of Dorset, January, 1733-4,
gives a full account of Bettesworth's visit to him, about which he says
that the serjeant had spread some five hundred falsehoods.--_W. E. B._]
ON THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL,[1] AND BETTESWORTH
Dear Dick, pr'ythee tell by what passion you move?
The world is in doubt whether hatred or love;
And, while at good Cashel you rail with such spite,
They shrewdly suspect it is all but a bite.
You certainly know, though so loudly you vapour,
His spite cannot wound who attempted the Drapier.
Then, pr'ythee, reflect, take a word of advice;
And, as your old wont is, change sides in a trice:
On his virtues hold forth; 'tis the very best way;
And say of the man what all honest men say.
But if, still obdurate, your anger remains,
If still your foul bosom more rancour contains,
Say then more than they, nay, lavishly flatter;
Tis your gross panegyrics alone can bespatter;
For thine, my dear Dick, give me leave to speak plain,
Like very foul mops, dirty more than they clean.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, a particular friend of the
Dean.--_Scott_.]
ON THE IRISH CLUB. 1733[1]
Ye paltry underlings of state,
Ye senators who love to prate;
Ye rascals of inferior note,
Who, for a dinner, sell a vote;
Ye pack of pensionary peers,
Whose fingers itch for poets' ears;
Ye bishops, far removed from saints,
Why all this rage? Why these complaints?
Why against printers all this noise?
This summoning of blackguard boys?
Why so sagacious in your guesses?
Your _effs_, and _tees_, and _arrs_, and _esses_!
Take my advice; to make you safe,
I know a shorter way by half.
The point is plain; remove the cause;
Defend your liberties and laws.
Be sometimes to your country true,
Have once the public good in view:
Bravely despise champagne at court,
And choose to dine at home with port:
Let prelates, by their good behaviour,
Convince us they believe a Saviour;
Nor sell what they so dearly bought,
This country, now their own, for nought.
Ne'er did a true satiric muse
Virtue or innocence abuse;
And 'tis against poetic rules
To rail at men by nature fools:
But * * *
* * * *
[Footnote 1: In the Dublin Edition, 1729--_Scott_.]
ON NOISY TOM
HORACE, PART OF BOOK I, SAT. VI, PARAPHRASED
1733
If Noisy Tom[1] should in the senate prate,
"That he would answer both for church and state;
And, farther, to demonstrate his affection,
Would take the kingdom into his protection;"
All mortals must be curious to inquire,
Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire?
"What! thou, the spawn of him[2] who shamed our isle,
Traitor, assassin, and informer vile!
Though by the female side,[3] you proudly bring,
To mend your breed, the murderer of a king:
What was thy grandsire,[4] but a mountaineer,
Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year:
Whose master Moore[5] preserved him from the halter,
For stealing cows! nor could he read the Psalter!
Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chase
Thy founder's grandson,[6] and usurp his place?
Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood
Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?[7]
Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,[8]
In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"[9]
[Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See _post_, p. 266.]
[Footnote 2: The father of Sir Thomas Prendergast, who engaged in a plot
to murder King William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer
against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and
made a baronet.--_F_.]
[Footnote 3: Cadogan's family.--_F_.]
[Footnote 4: A poor thieving cottager under Mr. Moore, condemned at
Clonmel assizes to be hanged for stealing cows.--_F_.]
[Footnote 5: The grandfather of Guy Moore, Esq., who procured him a
pardon._--F._]
[Footnote 6: Guy Moore was fairly elected member of Parliament for
Clonmel; but Sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party
then prevailing, and since known by the title of parson-hunters,
petitioned the House against him; out of which he was turned upon
pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted
to be.--_F_.]
[Footnote 7: "Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your
throat."--_F_.]
[Footnote 8: Mr. George Faulkner. Mr. Sergeant Bettesworth, a member of
the Irish Parliament, having made a complaint to the House of Commons
against the "Satire on Quadrille," they voted Faulkner the printer into
custody (who was confined closely in prison three days, when he was in a
very bad state of health, and his life in much danger) for not
discovering the author.--_F_.]
[Footnote 9: Among the poems, etc., preserved by Mr. Smith are verses on
the same subject and person with these in the text. The verses are given
in Swift's works, edit. Scott, xii, 448.--_W. E. B._]
ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY
1734-5
Make Rundle bishop! fie for shame!
An Arian to usurp the name!
A bishop in the isle of saints!
How will his brethren make complaints!
Dare any of the mitred host
Confer on him the Holy Ghost:
In mother church to breed a variance,
By coupling orthodox with Arians?
Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew:
What is there in it strange or new?
For, let us hear the weak pretence,
His brethren find to take offence;
Of whom there are but four at most,
Who know there is a Holy Ghost;
The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it,
Like Paul's Ephesians, never-heard it;
And, when they gave it, well 'tis known
They gave what never was their own.
Rundle a bishop! well he may;
He's still a Christian more than they.
We know the subject of their quarrels;
The man has learning, sense, and morals.
There is a reason still more weighty;
'Tis granted he believes a Deity.
Has every circumstance to please us,
Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus.
But why should he with that be loaded,
Now twenty years from court exploded?
And is not this objection odd
From rogues who ne'er believed a God?
For liberty a champion stout,
Though not so Gospel-ward devout.
While others, hither sent to save us
Come but to plunder and enslave us;
Nor ever own'd a power divine,
But Mammon, and the German line.
Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?
Who shew'd a better _jus divinum_?
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice refused _episcopari_.
Our bishop's predecessor, Magus,
Would offer all the sands of Tagus;
Or sell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay on hands:
But all his gold could not avail
To have the spirit set to sale.
Said surly Peter, "Magus, prithee,
Be gone: thy money perish with thee."
Were Peter now alive, perhaps,
He might have found a score of chaps,
Could he but make his gift appear
In rents three thousand pounds a-year.
Some fancy this promotion odd,
As not the handiwork of God;
Though e'en the bishops disappointed
Must own it made by God's anointed,
And well we know, the _congГ©_ regal
Is more secure as well as legal;
Because our lawyers all agree,
That bishoprics are held in fee.
Dear Baldwin[1] chaste, and witty Crosse,[2]
How sorely I lament your loss!
That such a pair of wealthy ninnies
Should slip your time of dropping guineas;
For, had you made the king your debtor,
Your title had been so much better.
[Footnote 1: Richard Baldwin, Provost of Trinity College in 1717. He left
behind him many natural children.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 2: Rector of St. Mary's Dublin, in 1722; before which time he
had been chaplain to the Smyrna Company. See the Epistolary
Correspondence, May 26, 1720.--_Scott_.]
EPIGRAM
Friend Rundle fell, with grievous bump,
Upon his reverential rump.
Poor rump! thou hadst been better sped,
Hadst thou been join'd to Boulter's head;
A head, so weighty and profound,
Would needs have kept thee from the ground.
A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION CLUB
1736
The immediate provocation to this fierce satire upon the Irish Parliament
was the introduction of a Bill to put an end to the tithe on pasturage,
called _agistment_, and thus to free the landlords from a legal payment,
with severe loss to the Church.
As I stroll the city, oft I
See a building large and lofty,
Not a bow-shot from the college;
Half the globe from sense and knowledge
By the prudent architect,
Placed against the church direct,[1]
Making good my grandam's jest,
"Near the church"--you know the rest.[2]
Tell us what the pile contains?
Many a head that has no brains.
These demoniacs let me dub
With the name of Legion[3] Club.
Such assemblies, you might swear,
Meet when butchers bait a bear:
Such a noise, and such haranguing,
When a brother thief's a hanging:
Such a rout and such a rabble
Run to hear Jackpudding gabble:
Such a crowd their ordure throws
On a far less villain's nose.
Could I from the building's top
Hear the rattling thunder drop,
While the devil upon the roof
(If the devil be thunder proof)
Should with poker fiery red
Crack the stones, and melt the lead;
Drive them down on every skull,
When the den of thieves is full;
Quite destroy that harpies' nest;
How might then our isle be blest!
For divines allow, that God
Sometimes makes the devil his rod;
And the gospel will inform us,
He can punish sins enormous.
Yet should Swift endow the schools,
For his lunatics and fools,
With a rood or two of land,
I allow the pile may stand.
You perhaps will ask me, Why so?
But it is with this proviso:
Since the house is like to last,
Let the royal grant be pass'd,
That the club have right to dwell
Each within his proper cell,
With a passage left to creep in
And a hole above for peeping.
Let them, when they once get in,
Sell the nation for a pin;
While they sit a-picking straws,
Let them rave of making laws;
While they never hold their tongue,
Let them dabble in their dung:
Let them form a grand committee,
How to plague and starve the city;
Let them stare, and storm, and frown,
When they see a clergy gown;
Let them, ere they crack a louse,
Call for th'orders of the house;
Let them, with their gosling quills,
Scribble senseless heads of bills;
We may, while they strain their throats,
Wipe our a--s with their votes.
Let Sir Tom,[4] that rampant ass,
Stuff his guts with flax and grass;
But before the priest he fleeces,
Tear the Bible all to pieces:
At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy,
Worthy offspring of a shoeboy,
Footman, traitor, vile seducer,
Perjured rebel, bribed accuser,
Lay thy privilege aside,
From Papist sprung, and regicide;
Fall a-working like a mole,
Raise the dirt about thy hole.
Come, assist me, Muse obedient!
Let us try some new expedient;
Shift the scene for half an hour,
Time and place are in thy power.
Thither, gentle Muse, conduct me;
I shall ask, and you instruct me.
See, the Muse unbars the gate;
Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!
All ye gods who rule the soul:[5]
Styx, through Hell whose waters roll!
Let me be allow'd to tell
What I heard in yonder Hell.
Near the door an entrance gapes,[6]
Crowded round with antic shapes,
Poverty, and Grief, and Care,
Causeless Joy, and true Despair;
Discord periwigg'd with snakes,'[7]
See the dreadful strides she takes!
By this odious crew beset,[8]
I began to rage and fret,
And resolved to break their pates,
Ere we enter'd at the gates;
Had not Clio in the nick[9]
Whisper'd me, "Lay down your stick."
What! said I, is this a mad-house?
These, she answer'd, are but shadows,
Phantoms bodiless and vain,
Empty visions of the brain.
In the porch Briareus stands,[10]
Shows a bribe in all his hands;
Briareus the secretary,
But we mortals call him Carey.[11]
When the rogues their country fleece,
They may hope for pence a-piece.
Clio, who had been so wise
To put on a fool's disguise,
To bespeak some approbation,
And be thought a near relation,
When she saw three hundred[12] brutes
All involved in wild disputes,
Roaring till their lungs were spent,
PRIVILEGE OF PARLIAMENT,
Now a new misfortune feels,
Dreading to be laid by th' heels.
Never durst a Muse before
Enter that infernal door;
Clio, stifled with the smell,
Into spleen and vapours fell,
By the Stygian steams that flew
From the dire infectious crew.
Not the stench of Lake Avernus
Could have more offended her nose;
Had she flown but o'er the top,
She had felt her pinions drop.
And by exhalations dire,
Though a goddess, must expire.
In a fright she crept away,
Bravely I resolved to stay.
When I saw the keeper frown,
Tipping him with half-a-crown,
Now, said I, we are alone,
Name your heroes one by one.
Who is that hell-featured brawler?
Is it Satan? No; 'tis Waller.[13]
In what figure can a bard dress
Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress?
Honest keeper, drive him further,
In his looks are Hell and murther;
See the scowling visage drop,
Just as when he murder'd Throp.[14]
Keeper, show me where to fix
On the puppy pair of Dicks:
By their lantern jaws and leathern,
You might swear they both are brethren:
Dick Fitzbaker,[15] Dick the player,[15]
Old acquaintance, are you there?
Dear companions, hug and kiss,
Toast Old Glorious in your piss;
Tie them, keeper, in a tether,
Let them starve and stink together;
Both are apt to be unruly,
Lash them daily, lash them duly;
Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them,
Scorpion's rods, perhaps, may tame them.
Keeper, yon old dotard smoke,
Sweetly snoring in his cloak:
Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne,[16]
Half encompass'd by his kin:
There observe the tribe of Bingham,[17]
For he never fails to bring 'em;
And that base apostate Vesey
With Bishop's scraps grown fat and greasy,
While Wynne sleeps the whole debate,
They submissive round him wait;
(Yet would gladly see the hunks,
In his grave, and search his trunks,)
See, they gently twitch his coat,
Just to yawn and give his vote,
Always firm in his vocation,
For the court against the nation.
Those are Allens Jack and Bob,[18]
First in every wicked job,
Son and brother to a queer
Brain-sick brute, they call a peer.
We must give them better quarter,
For their ancestor trod mortar,
And at Hoath, to boast his fame,
On a chimney cut his name.
There sit Clements, Dilks, and Carter;[19]
Who for Hell would die a martyr.
Such a triplet could you tell
Where to find on this side Hell?
Gallows Carter, Dilks, and Clements,
Souse them in their own excrements.
Every mischief's in their hearts;
If they fail, 'tis want of parts.
Bless us! Morgan,[20] art thou there, man?
Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman?
Chairman to yon damn'd committee!
Yet I look on thee with pity.
Dreadful sight! what, learned Morgan
Metamorphosed to a Gorgon![21]
For thy horrid looks, I own,
Half convert me to a stone.
Hast thou been so long at school,
Now to turn a factious tool?
Alma Mater was thy mother,
Every young divine thy brother.
Thou, a disobedient varlet,
Treat thy mother like a harlot!
Thou ungrateful to thy teachers,
Who are all grown reverend preachers!
Morgan, would it not surprise one!
To turn thy nourishment to poison!
When you walk among your books,
They reproach you with their looks;
Bind them fast, or from their shelves
They'll come down to right themselves:
Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus,
All in arms, prepare to back us:
Soon repent, or put to slaughter
Every Greek and Roman author.
Will you, in your faction's phrase,
Send the clergy all to graze;[22]
And to make your project pass,
Leave them not a blade of grass?
How I want thee, humorous Hogarth!
Thou, I hear, a pleasant rogue art.
Were but you and I acquainted,
Every monster should be painted:
You should try your graving tools
On this odious group of fools;
Draw the beasts as I describe them:
Form their features while I gibe them;
Draw them like; for I assure you,
You will need no _car'catura;_
Draw them so that we may trace
All the soul in every face.
Keeper, I must now retire,
You have done what I desire:
But I feel my spirits spent
With the noise, the sight, the scent.
"Pray, be patient; you shall find
Half the best are still behind!
You have hardly seen a score;
I can show two hundred more."
Keeper, I have seen enough.
Taking then a pinch of snuff,
I concluded, looking round them,
"May their god, the devil, confound them!"[23]
[Footnote 1: St. Andrew's Church, close to the site of the Parliament
House.]
[Footnote 2: On a scrap of paper, containing the memorials respecting the
Dean's family, there occur the following lines, apparently the rough
draught of the passage in the text:
"Making good that proverb odd,
Near the church and far from God,
Against the church direct is placed,
Like it both in head and waist."--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 3: From the answer of the demoniac that the devils which
possessed him were Legion.--St. Mark, v, 9.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: Sir Thomas Prendergast, a prominent opponent of the clergy,
and a servile supporter of the government. See the verses on "Noisy Tom,"
_ante_, p. 260.]
[Footnote 5: "Di quibus imperium est animarum umbraeque silentes
Sit mihi fas audita loqui."--VIRG., _Aen_., vi, 264.]
[Footnote 6: "Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci
Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae;"--273.]
[Footnote 7:"----Discordia demens
Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis."--281.]
[Footnote 8: "Corripit his subita trepidus,
----strictamque aciem venientibus offert."--290.]
[Footnote 9: "Et ni docta comes tenues sine corpore vitas."--VIRG.,
_Aen_., vi, 291.]
[Footnote 10: "Et centumgeminus Briareus."--287.]
[Footnote 11: The Right Honourable Walter Carey. He was secretary to the
Duke of Dorset when lord-lieutenant of Ireland. The Duke of Dorset
came to Ireland in 1731.]
[Footnote 12: "Two hundred" written by Swift in the margin.--_Forster_.]
[Footnote 13: John Waller, Esq., member for the borough of Dongaile. He
was grandson to Sir Hardress Waller, one of the regicide judges, and who
concurred with them in passing sentence on Charles I. This Sir
Hardressmarried the daughter and co-heir of John Dowdal of Limerick, in
Ireland,
by which alliance he became so connected with the country, that after the
rebellion was over, the family made it their residence.--_Scott._]
[Footnote 14: Rev. Roger Throp, whose death was said to have been
occasioned by the persecution which he suffered from Waller. His case was
published by his brother, and never answered, containing such a scene of
petty vexatious persecutions as is almost incredible; the cause being the
refusal of Mr. Throp to compound, for a compensation totally inadequate,
some of the rights of his living which affected Waller's estate. In 1739,
a petition was presented to the House of Commons by his brother, Robert
Throp, gentleman, complaining of this persecution, and applying to
parliament for redress, relative to the number of attachments granted by
the King's Bench, in favour of his deceased brother, and which could not
be executed against the said Waller, on account of the privilege of
Parliament, etc. But this petition was rejected by the House, _nem. con._
The Dean seems to have employed his pen against Waller. See a letter from
Mrs. Whiteway to Swift, Nov. 15, 1735, edit. Scott, xviii, p.
414.--_W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 15: Richard Tighe, so called because descended from a baker who
supplied Cromwell's army with bread. Bettesworth is termed the _player_,
from his pompous enunciation.]
[Footnote 16: "Right Honourable Owen Wynne, county of Sligo.---Owen Wynne,
Esq., borough of Sligo.--John Wynne, Esq., borough of Castlebar."]
[Footnote 17: "Sir John Bingham, Bart., county of Mayo.--His brother,
Henry Bingham, sat in parliament for some time for Castlebar."]
[Footnote 18: John Allen represented the borough of Carysfort; Robert
Allen the county of Wicklow. The former was son, and the latter brother
to Joshua, the second Viscount Allen, hated and satirized by Swift, under
the name of Traulus. The ancestor of the Allens, as has been elsewhere
noticed, was an architect in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign;
and was employed as such by many of the nobility, particularly Lord
Howth. He settled in Ireland, and was afterwards consulted by Lord
Stafford in some of his architectural plans.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 19: There were then two Clements in parliament, brothers,
Nathaniel and Henry. Michael Obrien Dilks represented the borough of
Castlemartye. He was barrack-master-general.]
[Footnote 20: Doctor Marcus Antonius (which Swift calls his "heathenish
Christian name") Morgan, chairman to that committee to whom was referred
the petition of the farmers, graziers, etc. against tithe agistment. On
this petition the House reported, and agreed that it deserved the
strongest support.]
[Footnote 21: Whose hair consisted of snakes, and who turned all she
looked upon to stone.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 22: A suggestion that if the tithe of _agistment_ were
abolished, the clergy might be sent to graze.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 23: On the margin of a Broadside containing this poem is
written by Swift:
"Except the righteous Fifty Two
To whom immortal honour's due,
Take them, Satan, as your due
All except the Fifty Two."--_Forster._
probably the number of those who opposed the Bill.--_W. E. B._]
ON A PRINTER'S[1] BEING SENT TO NEWGATE
Better we all were in our graves,
Than live in slavery to slaves;
Worse than the anarchy at sea,
Where fishes on each other prey;
Where every trout can make as high rants
O'er his inferiors, as our tyrants;
And swagger while the coast is clear:
But should a lordly pike appear,
Away you see the varlet scud,
Or hide his coward snout in mud.
Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
He dares not venture to approach;
Yet still has impudence to rise,
And, like Domitian,[2] leap at flies.
[Footnote 1: Mr. Faulkner, for printing the "Proposal for the better
Regulation and Improvement of Quadrille."]
[Footnote 2: "Inter initia principatus cotidie secretum sibi horarum
sumere solebat, nec quicquam amplius quam muscas captare ac stilo
praeacuto configere; ut cuidam interroganti, essetne quis intus cum
Caesare, non absurde responsum sit a Vibio Crispo, _ne muscam quidem_"
(Suet. 3).--_W. E. B._]
A VINDICATION OF THE LIBEL;
OR, A NEW BALLAD, WRITTEN BY A SHOE-BOY, ON AN ATTORNEY
WHO WAS FORMERLY A SHOE-BOY
"Qui color ater erat, nunc est contrarius atro."[1]
WITH singing of ballads, and crying of news,
With whitening of buckles, and blacking of shoes,
Did Hartley set out, both shoeless and shirtless,
And moneyless too, but not very dirtless;
Two pence he had gotten by begging, that's all;
One bought him a brush, and one a black ball;
For clouts at a loss he could not be much,
The clothes on his back as being but such;
Thus vamp'd and accoutred, with clouts, ball, and brush,
He gallantly ventured his fortune to push:
Vespasian[2] thus, being bespatter'd with dirt,
Was omen'd to be Rome's emperor for't.
But as a wise fiddler is noted, you know,
To have a good couple of strings to one bow;
So Hartley[3] judiciously thought it too little,
To live by the sweat of his hands and his spittle:
He finds out another profession as fit,
And straight he becomes a retailer of wit.
One day he cried--"Murders, and songs, and great news!"
Another as loudly--"Here blacken your shoes!"
At Domvile's[4] full often he fed upon bits,
For winding of jacks up, and turning of spits;
Lick'd all the plates round, had many a grubbing,
And now and then got from the cook-maid a drubbing;
Such bastings effect upon him could have none:
The dog will be patient that's struck with a bone.
Sir Thomas, observing this Hartley withal
So expert and so active at brushes and ball,
Was moved with compassion, and thought it a pity
A youth should be lost, that had been so witty:
Without more ado, he vamps up my spark,
And now we'll suppose him an eminent clerk!
Suppose him an adept in all the degrees
Of scribbling _cum dasho_, and hooking of fees;
Suppose him a miser, attorney, _per_ bill,
Suppose him a courtier--suppose what you will--
Yet, would you believe, though I swore by the Bible,
That he took up two news-boys for crying the libel?
[Footnote 1: Variation from Ovid, "Met.," ii, 541:
"Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo."--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: So in _Hudibras_, Pt. II, Canto II:
"_Vespasian_ being dawb'd with Durt,
Was destin'd to the Empire for't
And from a Scavinger did come
To be a mighty Prince in _Rome_."]
[Footnote 3: Squire Hartley Hutcheson, "that zealous prosecutor of
hawkers and libels," who signed Faulkner's committal to prison. See
"Prose Works," vii, 234.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: Sir T. Domvile, patentee of the Hanaper office.--_F._]
A FRIENDLY APOLOGY FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF PEACE
BY WAY OF DEFENCE OF HARTLEY HUTCHESON, ESQ.
BY JAMES BLACK-WELL, OPERATOR FOR THE FEET
But he by bawling news about,
And aptly using brush and clout,
A justice of the peace became,
To punish rogues who do the same.
I sing the man of courage tried,
O'errun with ignorance and pride,
Who boldly hunted out disgrace
With canker'd mind, and hideous face;
The first who made (let none deny it)
The libel-vending rogues be quiet.
The fact was glorious, we must own,
For Hartley was before unknown,
Contemn'd I mean;--for who would chuse
So vile a subject for the Muse?
'Twas once the noblest of his wishes
To fill his paunch with scraps from dishes,
For which he'd parch before the grate,
Or wind the jack's slow-rising weight,
(Such toils as best his talents fit,)
Or polish shoes, or turn the spit;
But, unexpectedly grown rich in
Squire Domvile's family and kitchen,
He pants to eternize his name,
And takes the dirty road to fame;
Believes that persecuting wit
Will prove the surest way to it;
So with a colonel[1] at his back,
The Libel feels his first attack;
He calls it a seditious paper,
Writ by another patriot Drapier;
Then raves and blunders nonsense thicker
Than alderman o'ercharged with liquor:
And all this with design, no doubt,
To hear his praises hawk'd about;
To send his name through every street,
Which erst he roam'd with dirty feet;
Well pleased to live in future times,
Though but in keen satiric rhymes.
So, Ajax, who, for aught we know,
Was justice many years ago,
And minding then no earthly things,
But killing libellers of kings;
Or if he wanted work to do,
To run a bawling news-boy through;
Yet he, when wrapp'd up in a cloud,
Entreated father Jove aloud,
Only in light to show his face,
Though it might tend to his disgrace.
And so the Ephesian villain [2] fired
The temple which the world admired,
Contemning death, despising shame,
To gain an ever-odious name.
[Footnote 1: Colonel Ker, a Scotchman, lieutenant-colonel to Lord
Harrington's regiment of dragoons, who made a news-boy evidence against
The printer.--_F_.]
[Footnote 2: Herostratus, who set fire to the Temple of Artemis at
Ephesus, 356 B.C.--_W. E. B._]
AY AND NO
A TALE FROM DUBLIN.[1] WRITTEN IN 1737
At Dublin's high feast sat Primate and Dean,
Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean:
Quoth Hugh of Armagh, "The mob is grown bold."
"Ay, ay," quoth the Dean, "the cause is old gold."
"No, no," quoth the Primate, "if causes we sift,
This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift."
The smart one replied, "There's no wit in the case;
And nothing of that ever troubled your grace.
Though with your state sieve your own notions you split,
A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit.
It's matter of weight, and a mere money job;
But the lower the coin the higher the mob.
Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk,
That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke.
The Irish dear joys have enough common sense,
To treat gold reduced like Wood's copper pence.
It is a pity a prelate should die without law;
But if I say the word--take care of Armagh!"
[Footnote 1: In 1737, the gold coin had sunk in current value to the
amount of 6_d._ in each guinea, which made it the interest of the Irish
dealers to send over their balances in silver. To bring the value of the
precious metals nearer to a par, the Primate, Boulter, who was chiefly
trusted by the British Government in the administration of Ireland,
published a proclamation reducing the value of the gold coin threepence
in each guinea. This scheme was keenly opposed by Swift; and such was the
clamour excited against the archbishop, that his house was obliged to be
guarded by soldiers. The two following poems relate to this controversy,
which was, for the time it lasted, nearly as warm as that about Wood's
halfpence. The first is said to be the paraphrase of a conversation which
actually passed between Swift and the archbishop. The latter charged the
Dean with inflaming the mob, "I inflame them?" retorted Swift, "were I to
lift but a finger, they would tear you to pieces."--_Scott_.]
