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 _congé_ 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_.]

A BALLAD

Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town? By my soul there's bad news, for the gold she was pull'd down, The gold she was pull'd down, of that I'm very sure, For I saw'd them reading upon the towlsel[2] _doore_. Sing, och, och, hoh, hoh.[3]

Arrah! who was him reading? 'twas _jauntleman_ in ruffles, And Patrick's bell she was ringing all in muffles; She was ringing very sorry, her tongue tied up with rag, Lorsha! and out of her shteeple there was hung a black flag.[4] Sing, och, &c.

Patrick astore, who was him made this law? Some they do say, 'twas the big man of straw;[5] But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,[6] The devil he may take her into hell and _Boult-her!_ Sing, och, &c.

Musha! Why Parliament wouldn't you maul, Those _carters_, and paviours, and footmen, and all;[7] Those rascally paviours who did us undermine, Och ma ceade millia mollighart[8] on the feeders of swine! Sing, och, &c.

[Footnote 1: Astore, means my dear, my heart.]

[Footnote 2: The Tholsel, where criminals for the city were tried, and where proclamations, etc., were posted. It was invariably called the Touls'el by the lower class.]

[Footnote 3: It would appear that the chorus here introduced, was intended to chime with the howl, the _ululatus_, or funeral cry, of the Irish.]

[Footnote 4: Swift, it is said, caused a muffled peal to be rung from the steeple of St. Patrick's, on the day of the proclamation, and a black flag to be displayed from its battlements.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: The big man of straw, means the Duke of Dorset, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; he had only the name of authority, the essential power being vested in the primate.]

[Footnote 6: Jug-Joulter means Primate _Boulter_, whose name is played upon in the succeeding line. In consequence of the public dissatisfaction expressed at the lowering the gold coin, the primate became very unpopular.]

[Footnote 7: "Footmen" alludes to a supporter of the measure, said to have been the son or grandson of a servant.]

[Footnote 8: Means _"my hundred thousand hearty curses_ on the feeders of swine."]

A WICKED TREASONABLE LIBEL[1]

While the king and his ministers keep such a pother, And all about changing one whore for another, Think I to myself, what need all this strife, His majesty first had a whore of a wife, And surely the difference mounts to no more Than, now he has gotten a wife of a whore. Now give me your judgment a very nice case on; Each queen has a son, say which is the base one? Say which of the two is the right Prince of Wales, To succeed, when, (God bless him,) his majesty fails; Perhaps it may puzzle our loyal divines To unite these two Protestant parallel lines, From a left-handed wife, and one turn'd out of doors, Two reputed king's sons, both true sons of whores; No law can determine it, which is first oars. But, alas! poor old England, how wilt thou be master'd; For, take which you please, it must needs be a bastard.

[Footnote 1: So the following very remarkable verses are entitled, in a copy which exists in the Dean's hand-writing bearing the following characteristic memorandum on the back: "A traitorous libel, writ several years ago. It is inconsistent with itself. Copied September 9, 1735. I wish I knew the author, that I might hang him." And at the bottom of the paper is subjoined this postscript. "I copied out this wicked paper many years ago, in hopes to discover the traitor of an author, that I might inform against him." For the foundation of the scandals current during the reign of George I, to which the lines allude, see Walpole's Reminiscences of the Courts of George the first and second, chap, ii, at p. cii, Walpole's Letters, edit. Cunningham.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY BY SWIFT AND OTHERS

CHARLES CARTHY, a schoolmaster in the city of Dublin, was publisher of a translation of Horace, in which the Latin was printed on the one side, and the English on the other, whence he acquired the name of Mezentius, alluding to the practice of that tyrant, who chained the dead to the living. Carthy was almost continually involved in satirical skirmishes with Dunkin, for whom Swift had a particular friendship, and there is no doubt that the Dean himself engaged in the warfare.--_Scott_.

ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE

Containing, on one side, the original Latin, on the other, his own version.

This I may boast, which few e'er could, Half of my book at least is good.

ON CARTHY MINOTAURUS

How monstrous Carthy looks with Flaccus braced, For here we see the man and there the beast.

ON THE SAME

Once Horace fancied from a man, He was transformed to a swan;[1] But Carthy, as from him thou learnest, Has made the man a goose in earnest.

[Footnote 1: "Jam jam residunt cruribus asperae Pelles, et album mutor in alitem Superne, nascunturque leves Per digitos humerosque plumae." Lib. ii, Carm. xx.]

ON THE SAME

Talis erat quondam Tithoni splendida conjux, Effulsit misero sic Dea juncta viro; Hunc tandem imminuit sensim longaeva senectus, Te vero extinxit, Carole, prima dies.

IMITATED

So blush'd Aurora with celestial charms, So bloom'd the goddess in a mortal's arms; He sunk at length to wasting age a prey, But thy book perish'd on its natal day.

AD HORATIUM CUM CARTHIO CONSTRICTUM

Lectores ridere jubes dum Carthius astat? Iste procul depellit olens tibi Maevius omnes: Sic triviis veneranda diu, Jovis inclyta proles Terruit, assumpto, mortales, Gorgonis ore.

IMITATED

Could Horace give so sad a monster birth? Why then in vain he would excite our mirth; His humour well our laughter might command, But who can bear the death's head in his hand?

AN IRISH EPIGRAM ON THE SAME

While with the fustian of thy book, The witty ancient you enrobe, You make the graceful Horace look As pitiful as Tom M'Lobe.[1] Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount, And Helicon, for if this log Should stumble once into the fount, He'll make it muddy as a bog.

[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become proverbial.--_Scott._]

ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF LONGINUS

High as Longinus to the stars ascends, So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.

RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA

Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras, Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.

ON THE SAME

What Midas touch'd became true gold, but then, Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen.

CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY

For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy's works, as they did not sell.

I must confess that I was somewhat warm, I broke his teeth, but where's the mighty harm? My work he said could ne'er afford him meat, And teeth are useless where there's nought to eat!

TO CARTHY On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his Longinus.

Thus vagrant beggars, to extort By charity a mean support, Their sores and putrid ulcers show, And shock our sense till we bestow.

TO CARTHY On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his book of Poems.

How different from thine is Dunkin's lot! Thou'rt curst for publishing, and he for not.

ON CARTHY'S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS, UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS

So witches bent on bad pursuits, Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.

TO CARTHY

Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal'd from light, Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight, But forced from their retirement into day, The tender embryos half unknown decay; Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare, Expire when first exposed to open air.

TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. DUNKIN

From the Gentleman's London Magazine for January.

My lines to him you give; to speak your due, 'Tis what no man alive will say of you. Your works are like old Jacob's speckled goats, Known by the verse, yet better by the notes. Pope's essays upon some for Young's may pass, But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass; So green in different lights may pass for blue, But what's dyed black will take no other hue.

UPON CARTHY'S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR

You have undone Horace,--what should hinder Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar? But ere you mount his fiery steed, Beware, O Bard, how you proceed:-- For should you give him once the reins, High up in air he'll turn your brains; And if you should his fury check, 'Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.

DR. SWIFT WROTE THE FOLLOWING EPIGRAM

On one Delacourt's complimenting Carthy on his Poetry

Carthy, you say, writes well--his genius true, You pawn your word for him--he'll vouch for you. So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other's bail.

POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN

Some ancient authors wisely write, That he who drinks will wake at night, Will never fail to lose his rest, And feel a streightness in his chest; A streightness in a double sense, A streightness both of breath and pence: Physicians say, it is but reasonable, He that comes home at hour unseasonable, (Besides a fall and broken shins, Those smaller judgments for his sins;) If, when he goes to bed, he meets A teasing wife between the sheets, 'Tis six to five he'll never sleep, But rave and toss till morning peep. Yet harmless Betty must be blamed Because you feel your lungs inflamed But if you would not get a fever, You never must one moment leave her. This comes of all your drunken tricks, Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks; Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery But like the prelate who lives yonder-a, And always cries he is like Cassandra; I always told you, Mr. Sheridan, If once this company you were rid on, Frequented honest folk, and very few, You'd live till all your friends were weary of you. But if rack punch you still would swallow, I then forewarn'd you what would follow. Are the Deanery sober hours? Be witness for me all ye powers. The cloth is laid at eight, and then We sit till half an hour past ten; One bottle well might serve for three If Mrs. Robinson drank like me. Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd To Robert to bring up a second; I hate to have it in my sight, And drink my share in perfect spite. If Robin brings the ladies word, The coach is come, I 'scape a third; If not, why then I fall a-talking How sweet a night it is for walking; For in all conscience, were my treasure able, I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable; It strikes eleven,--get out of doors.-- This is my constant farewell Yours, J. S.

October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.

You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the provost.

LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW[1] IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE

Resolve me this, ye happy dead, Who've lain some hundred years in bed, From every persecution free That in this wretched life we see; Would ye resume a second birth, And choose once more to live on earth?

[Footnote 1: Soon after Swift's acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it has been since restored.--_Scott._]

DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE FOLLOWING LINES

Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb: "Mortal, I would not change my doom, To live in such a restless state, To be unfortunately great; To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves, To shine amidst a race of slaves; To learn from wise men to complain And only rise to fall again: No! let my dusty relics rest, Until I rise among the blest."

[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel's tomb lies within view of the window.]

THE UPSTART

The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the editor, ascribed to Swift.--_Scott._

"---- The rascal! that's too mild a name; Does he forget from whence he came? Has he forgot from whence he sprung? A mushroom in a bed of dung; A maggot in a cake of fat, The offspring of a beggar's brat; As eels delight to creep in mud, To eels we may compare his blood; His blood delights in mud to run, Witness his lazy, lousy son! Puff'd up with pride and insolence, Without a grain of common sense. See with what consequence he stalks! With what pomposity he talks! See how the gaping crowd admire The stupid blockhead and the liar! How long shall vice triumphant reign? How long shall mortals bend to gain? How long shall virtue hide her face, And leave her votaries in disgrace? --Let indignation fire my strains, Another villain yet remains-- Let purse-proud C----n next approach; With what an air he mounts his coach! A cart would best become the knave, A dirty parasite and slave! His heart in poison deeply dipt, His tongue with oily accents tipt, A smile still ready at command, The pliant bow, the forehead bland--" * * * * * * * * * *

ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD[1]

--URBS INTACTA MANET--semper intacta manebit, Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat?

[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he said, of the ladies.--_Scott._]

TRANSLATION

A thistle is the Scottish arms, Which to the toucher threatens harms, What are the arms of Waterford, That no man touches--but a ----?

VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1]

Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas! MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.

See, here's the grand approach, That way is for his grace's coach; There lies the bridge, and there the clock, Observe the lion and the cock;[2] The spacious court, the colonnade, And mind how wide the hall is made; The chimneys are so well design'd, They never smoke in any wind: The galleries contrived for walking, The windows to retire and talk in; The council-chamber to debate, And all the rest are rooms of state. Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine, But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine? I find, by all you have been telling, That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.

[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See vol. i, p. 74.--W.E..B_]

[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation," and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No. 59.--_W. E. B._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY

Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year, Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near; To whom did he lose it?--A judge or a peer.[2] Which nobody can deny.

This very same conscience was sold in a closet, Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset, But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset. Which nobody can deny.

O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense, For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since, But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience. Which nobody can deny.

So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed, Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead, Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned. Which nobody can deny.

But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue, Since selling de contre be now all de vogue, You be but von fool after seventeen rogue. Which nobody can deny.

Some sell it for profit, 'tis very well known, And some but for sitting in sight of the throne, And other some sell what is none of their own. Which nobody can deny.

But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze, And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise, With six other worthies as glorious as these. Which nobody can deny.

There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood, And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good, All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood. Which nobody can deny.

But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on't in time, Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme, We'll paint 'em in colours as black as their crime. Which nobody can deny.

But P----r and copper L----h we'll excuse, The commands of your betters you dare not refuse, Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes. Which nobody can deny.

[Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written by Swift.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by his opposition to Wood's coinage.

BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL

I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood, But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good; Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears, Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years. In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right, And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't. And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason. His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore, Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more. Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross, For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross. To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win, He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin. Why, there’s my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows, He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows. "A bishop," says the noble squire, "I hate the very name, To have two thousand pounds a-year--O 'tis a burning shame! Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!" And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive: Now from his lordship's grace I hold a little piece of ground, And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound. Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo, Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go." He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks, For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box. And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace, Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face: Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain; He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain. "Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend, I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend, Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can; I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man." Then said his lordship with a smile, "I must have lawful cash, I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's trash!" "God bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher, Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire." To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke, Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk. And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found, His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound; "Why, sirrah," said the noble squire, "how dare you see my face, Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace." And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack, That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back. Then God preserve his lordship's grace, and make him live as long As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.

TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN

A POEM

Serus in coelum redeas, diuque Laetus intersis populo.--HOR., _Carm._ I, ii, 45.

Great, good, and just, was once applied To one who for his country died;[l] To one who lives in its defence, We speak it in a happier sense. O may the fates thy life prolong! Our country then can dread no wrong: In thy great care we place our trust, Because thou'rt great, and good, and just: Thy breast unshaken can oppose Our private and our public foes: The latent wiles, and tricks of state, Your wisdom can with ease defeat. When power in all its pomp appears, It falls before thy rev'rend years, And willingly resigns its place To something nobler in thy face. When once the fierce pursuing Gaul Had drawn his sword for Marius' fall, The godlike hero with a frown Struck all his rage and malice down; Then how can we dread William Wood, If by thy presence he's withstood? Where wisdom stands to keep the field, In vain he brings his brazen shield; Though like the sibyl's priest he comes, With furious din of brazen drums The force of thy superior voice Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.

[Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose:

"Great, good, and just! could I but rate My griefs to thy too rigid fate, I'd weep the world in such a strain As it should deluge once again; But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes, I'll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds, And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds."

See Napier's "Montrose and the Covenanters," i, 520.--_W. E. B._]

TO THE CITIZENS[1]

And shall the Patriot who maintain'd your cause, From future ages only meet applause? Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid, By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd? Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside, These wretches had been damn'd for parricide. Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat The sure destruction of an injured state, Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd, Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd; Inspired with love of glorious liberty, Do wonders to preserve his country free; He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey, Each urging in his rage the deadly dart, Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart; Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief, And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief, But, if the people he preserved should cry, He went too far, and he deserved to--die, Would not your soul such treachery detest, And indignation boil within your breast, Would not you wish that wretched state preserved, To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved? If, then, oppression has not quite subdued At once your prudence and your gratitude, If you yourselves conspire not your undoing, And don't deserve, and won't draw down your ruin, If yet to virtue you have some pretence, If yet ye are not lost to common sense, Assist your patriot in your own defence; That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise, And know that to be brave is to be wise: Think how he struggled for your liberty, And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free. M. B.

[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments, while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly their own.--_Scott._]

PUNCH'S PETITION TO THE LADIES

----Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, Auri sacra fames!----VIRG., _Aen._, iii.

This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton, when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.--_Scott._ See vol. i, p. 169.--_W. E. B._

Fair ones who do all hearts command, And gently sway with fan in hand Your favourite--Punch a suppliant falls, And humbly for assistance calls; He humbly calls and begs you'll stop The gothic rage of Vander Hop, Wh'invades without pretence and right, Or any law but that of might, Our Pigmy land--and treats our kings Like paltry idle wooden things; Has beat our dancers out of doors, And call'd our chastest virgins whores; He has not left our Queen a rag on, Has forced away our George and Dragon, Has broke our wires, nor was he civil To Doctor Faustus nor the devil; E'en us he hurried with full rage, Most hoarsely squalling off the stage; And faith our fright was very great To see a minister of state, Arm'd with power and fury come To force us from our little home-- We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason, An accusation of high-treason; Till, starting up, says Banamiere, "Treason, my friends, we need not fear, For 'gainst the Brass we used no power, Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1] Nor did we show the least affection To Rochford or the Meath election; Nor did we sing,--'Machugh he means.'" "You villain, I'll dash out your brains, 'Tis no affair of state which brings Me here--or business of the King's; I'm come to seize you all as debtors, And bind you fast in iron fetters, From sight of every friend in town, Till fifty pound's to me paid down." --"Fifty!" quoth I, "a devilish sum; But stay till the brass farthings come, Then we shall all be rich as Jews, From Castle down to lowest stews; That sum shall to you then be told, Though now we cannot furnish gold." Quoth he, "thou vile mis-shapen beast, Thou knave, am I become thy jest; And dost thou think that I am come To carry nought but farthings home! Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves, Farthings are made for Irish slaves; No brass for me, it must be gold, Or fifty pounds in silver told, That can by any means obtain Freedom for thee and for thy train." "Votre très humble serviteur, I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure, But from the bottom of my belly, I do in sober sadness tell you, I thought it was good reasoning, For us fictitious men to bring Brass counters made by William Wood Intrinsic as we flesh and blood; Then since we are but mimic men, Pray let us pay in mimic coin." Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate, And couldst for ever hold debate; But think'st thou I have nought to do But to stand prating thus with you? Therefore to stop your noisy parly, I do at once assure you fairly, That not a puppet of you all Shall stir a step without this wall, Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum, Until you pay the foresaid sum." Then marching off with swiftest race To write dispatches for his grace, The revel-master left the room, And us condemn'd to fatal doom. Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace, Or if my jokes did ever please, Use all your interest with your sec,[2] (They say he's at the ladies' beck,) And though he thinks as much of gold As ever Midas[3] did of old: Your charms I'm sure can never fail, Your eyes must influence, must prevail; At your command he'll set us free, Let us to you owe liberty. Get us a license now to play, And we'll in duty ever pray.

[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant, who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, _rythmi gratia.--Scott._]

[Footnote 3: See Ovid, "Metam." xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM

Great folks are of a finer mould; Lord! how politely they can scold! While a coarse English tongue will itch, For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.

EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT[1]

ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2]

Lord Pam[3] in the church (you'd you think it) kneel'd down; When told that the Duke was just come to Town-- His station despising, unawed by the place, He flies from his God to attend to his Grace. To the Court it was better to pay his devotion, Since God had no hand in his Lordship's promotion.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, "The Storm," at p. 242.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French _Pamphile_. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that Title from the days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was promoted _non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus_. From a note in "The Toast," by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London, 1736.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM[1]

Behold! a proof of _Irish_ sense; Here _Irish_ wit is seen! When nothing's left that's worth defence, We build a magazine.

[Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician, Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, "Oh! Oh!" said the Dean, "This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my tablets"--and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above epigram.--_W. E. B._]

TRIFLES

GEORGE ROCHFORT'S VERSES FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, AT LARACOR, NEAR TRIM

MUSA CLONSHOGHIANA

That Downpatrick's Dean, or Patrick's down went, Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant; So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent, Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent. Our parsons agree here, as those did at Trent, Dan's forehead has got a most damnable dent, Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent. But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly bent, With your bloody ouns in one stanza pent; Does Jack's utter ruin at picket prevent, For an answer in specie to yours must be sent; So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent, And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint, Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment; But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent. Bellcampe, January 1, 1717.

A LEFT-HANDED LETTER[1]

TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718

Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue, That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung; We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst, Yet still are no wiser than we were at first.

_Pudet haec opprobria_, I freely must tell ye, _Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli._ Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer, You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2]; I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score; How many to answer? One, two, three, or four, But, because the three former are long ago past, I shall, for method-sake, begin with the last. You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe, Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow. Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field, Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield. So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them, Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, _Te Deum._ So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground, Comes off by out-laughing the company round: In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies, Having thus overthrown all our farther advances. My offers of peace you ill understood; Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good? 'Twas to teach you in modester language your duty; For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye; As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends. But we like Antæus and Hercules fight, The oftener you fall, the oftener you write: And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown, I'll first take you up, and then take you down; And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound The worst dunce in your school, till he's heaved from the ground.

I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of business. September 20, 1718.--I will send you the rest when I have leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.

[Footnote 1: The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility of printing it left-handed as it was written.--_H_.]

[Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see "Prose Works," v, 326.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, especially p. 404.--_W. E. B._]

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S IN ANSWER TO HIS LEFT-HANDED LETTER

Since your poetic prancer is turn'd into Cancer, I'll tell you at once, sir, I'm now not your man, sir; For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground? When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back; But I found out the way to your den by its track: From thence the black monster I drew, o' my conscience, And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense. When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue, You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew; Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair, Therefore turn about to the right, as you were; Then if with true courage your ground you maintain, My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain: Who's greater by far than great Alexander, As much as a teal surpasses a gander; As much as a game-cock’s excell'd by a sparrow; As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow: As much and much more as the most handsome man Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan. T. SHERIDAN.

This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called the left hand.

Oft have I been by poets told, That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old. Alas, thy numbers failing all, Poor Jonathan, how they do fall! Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell, Now jingle like a rusty bridle: Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet, Now limp upon their gouty feet: Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime, Are humbled by the tyrant, Time: Alas! what cannot Time subdue? Time has reduced my wine and you; Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings, Disabled both in our main springs; So that of late we two are grown The jest and scorn of all the town. But yet, if my advice be ta'en, We two may be as great again; I'll send you wings, you send me wine; Then you will fly, and I shall shine.

This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.

How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her; Little did she know, I was _ambidexter_. T. SHERIDAN.

TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN

REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR,

I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school, in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane. I am yours, Reverend Sir, to command, PAT. REYLY.

Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim. HOR., _Epist_. II, i, 117

AD AMICUM ERUDITUM THOMAM SHERIDAN

Deliciæ, Sheridan, Musarum, dulcis amice, Sic tibi propitius Permessi ad flumen Apollo Occurrat, seu te mimum convivia rident, Aequivocosque sales spargis, seu ludere versu Malles; dic, Sheridan, quisnam fuit ille deorum, Quae melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri Scrutandi? Tibi nascenti ad cunabula Pallas Astitit; et dixit, mentis praesaga futurae, Heu, puer infelix! nostro sub sidere natus; Nam tu pectus eris sine corpore, corporis umbra; Sed levitate umbram superabis, voce cicadam: Musca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura. Corpore sed tenui tibi quod natura negavit, Hoc animi dotes supplebunt; teque docente, Nec longum tempus, surget tibi docta juventus, Artibus egregiis animas instructa novellas. Grex hinc Paeonius venit, ecce, salutifer orbi; Ast, illi causas orant: his insula visa est Divinam capiti nodo constringere mitram. Natalis te horae non fallunt signa, sed usque Conscius, expedias puero seu laetus Apollo Nascenti arrisit; sive ilium frigidus horror Saturni premit, aut septem inflavere triones. Quin tu altè penitusque latentia semina cernis Quaeque diu obtundendo olim sub luminis auras Erumpent, promis; quo ritu saepè puella Sub cinere hesterno sopitos suscitat ignes. Te dominum agnoscit quocunque sub aëre natus: Quos indulgentis nimium custodia matris Pessundat: nam saepè vides in stipite matrem. Aureus at ramus, venerandae dona Sibyllae, Aeneae sedes tantùm patefecit Avernas; Saepè puer, tua quem tetigit semel aurea virga, Et coelum, terrasque videt, noctemque profundam.

Ad te, doctissime Delany, Pulsus à foribus Decani, Confugiens edo querelam, Pauper petens clientelam. Petebam Swift doctum patronum, Sed ille dedit nullum donum, Neque cibum neque bonum. Quaeris quàm malè sit stomacho num? Iratus valdè valdè latrat, Crumenicidam fermè patrat: Quin ergo releves aegrotum, Dato cibum, dato potum. Ita in utrumvis oculum, Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum.

Quaeso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam cum versiculis perlegere, quam cum fastidio abjecit et respuebat Decanus ille (inquam) lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes.

Reverende Vir,

De vestrâ benignitate et clementiâ in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi persuasum esset nobis, hanc epistolam reverentiae vestrae non scripsissem; quam profectò, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere partem nullus dubito. Saevit Boreas, mugiunt procellae, dentibus invitis maxillae bellum gerunt. Nec minus, intestino depraeliantibus tumultu visceribus, classicum sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, haec nostra querela. Proh Deûm atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule, nostro ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio, qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi, ad te, quasi ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene nôssem succurrere potuisse, mehercule, neque fores vestras pultûssem, neque limina tetigissem. Quàm longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens, despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In viâ nullum fuit solatium praeterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Maecenatis convivium, ita me picturâ pascens inani, saepius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum sacra fames? Haec omnia, quae nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires; nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.

Vivitur parvo malè, sed canebat Flaccus ut parvo benè: quod negamus: Pinguis et lautè saturatus ille Ridet inanes.

Pace sic dicam liceat poetae Nobilis laeti salibus faceti Usque jocundi, lepidè jocantis Non sine curâ.

Quis potest versus (meditans merendam, Prandium, coenam) numerare? quis non Quot panes pistor locat in fenestrâ Dicere mallet?

Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus; Latrat ingenti stomachus furore; Quaeso digneris renovare fauces, Docte Patrone.

Vestiant lanae tenues libellos, Vestiant panni dominum trementem, Aedibus vestris trepidante pennâ Musa propinquat.

Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam Esse promittit, nisi sit coacta Frigore iniquo.

Si modo possem! Vetat heu pudor me Plura, sed praestat rogitare plura, An dabis binos digitos crumenae im- ponere vestrae?

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise Have made a recantation, From your low bended knees arise; I hate such poor prostration.

'Tis bravery that moves the brave, As one nail drives another; If you from me would mercy have, Pray, Sir, be such another.

You that so long maintain'd the field With true poetic vigour; Now you lay down your pen and yield, You make a wretched figure.

Submit, but do't with sword in hand, And write a panegyric Upon the man you cannot stand; I'll have it done in lyric:

That all the boys I teach may sing The achievements of their Chiron; What conquests my stern looks can bring Without the help of iron.

A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen, From magazine of standish Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean, Than any sword we brandish.

My ink’s my flash, my pen’s my bolt; Whene'er I please to thunder, I'll make you tremble like a colt, And thus I'll keep you under. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

Dear Dean, I'm in a sad condition, I cannot see to read or write; Pity the darkness of thy Priscian, Whose days are all transform'd to night.

My head, though light, 's a dungeon grown, The windows of my soul are closed; Therefore to sleep I lay me down, My verse and I are both composed.

Sleep, did I say? that cannot be; For who can sleep, that wants his eyes? My bed is useless then to me, Therefore I lay me down to rise.

Unnumber'd thoughts pass to and fro Upon the surface of my brain; In various maze they come and go, And come and go again.

So have you seen in sheet burnt black, The fiery sparks at random run; Now here, now there, some turning back Some ending where they just begun. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

AN ANSWER, BY DELANY, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded sore eye, And the more I consider your case, still the more I Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye. Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye, In pity cry out, "He's a poor blinded Tory." But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye A sovereign cure well attested in Gory. First wash it with _ros_, that makes dative _rori_, Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore ye; Then take a cordial dram to restore ye, Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree, Then take a glass of good claret _ex more_, Then stay as long as you can _ab uxore_; And then if friend Dick[1] will but ope your back-door, he Will quickly dispel the black clouds that hang o'er ye, And make you so bright, that you'll sing tory rory, And make a new ballad worth ten of John Dory: (Though I work your cure, yet he'll get the glory.) I'm now in the back school-house, high up one story, Quite weary with teaching, and ready to _mori_. My candle's just out too, no longer I'll pore ye, But away to Clem Barry's,[2]--there’s an end of my story.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]

[Footnote 2: See "The Country Life," i, 140.]

A REPLY, BY SHERIDAN, TO DELANY

I like your collyrium, Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye 'um, 'Twill gain you a great reputation; By this you may rise, Like the doctor so wise,[1] Who open'd the eyes of the nation.

And these, I must tell ye, Are bigger than its belly;-- You know, there’s in Livy a story Of the hands and the feet Denying of meat,-- Don't I write in the dark like a Tory?

Your water so far goes, 'Twould serve for an Argus, Were all his whole hundred sore; So many we read He had in his head, Or Ovid's a son of a whore.

For your recipe, sir, May my lids never stir, If ever I think once to fee you; For I'd have you to know, When abroad I can go, That it's honour enough, if I see you.

[Footnote 1: Probably Dr. Davenant.]

ANOTHER REPLY, BY SHERIDAN

My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes; As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies! I cannot lie down, but immediately rise, To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise. Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies, But his head and his tail new succour supplies, To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs. The wing of a goose before me now lies, Which is both shield and sword for such weak enemies. Whoever opposes me, certainly dies, Though he were as valiant as Condé or Guise. The women disturb me a-crying of pies, With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs. By this, Sir, you find, should we rhyme for a prize, That I'd gain cloth of gold, when you'd scarce merit frize.

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle; But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single. For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime, Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme. If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon, But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken. Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call'd me a fool; For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool. In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis; Dum nimium scribis, vel talpâ caecior ibis, Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina laedis: Sed tibi coenanti sunt collyria tanti? Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu? Heu Sheridan caecus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus. Nunc benè nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus: Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abundà, Nec Phoebe fili versum quîs[2] mittere Ryly. Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3] Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parcè diurno Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu. Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt. Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, mî bone, lynces. Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine mergis; Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates. Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani: Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant, Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis Haec tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady, Huic te des solae, nec egebis pharmacopolae. Haec somnians cecini, JON. SWIFT.

Oct. 23, 1718.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]

[Footnote 2: Pro potes.--_Horat._]

[Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio.--_Virg._]

[Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.]

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY

Tom, for a goose you keep but base quills, They're fit for nothing else but pasquils. I've often heard it from the wise, That inflammations in the eyes Will quickly fall upon the tongue, And thence, as famed John Bunyan sung, From out the pen will presently On paper dribble daintily. Suppose I call'd you goose, it is hard One word should stick thus in your gizzard. You're my goose, and no other man's; And you know, all my geese are swans: Only one scurvy thing I find, Swans sing when dying, geese when blind. But now I smoke where lies the slander,-- I call'd you goose instead of gander; For that, dear Tom, ne'er fret and vex, I'm sure you cackle like the sex. I know the gander always goes With a quill stuck across his nose: So your eternal pen is still Or in your claw, or in your bill. But whether you can tread or hatch, I've something else to do than watch. As for your writing I am dead, I leave it for the second head.

Deanery-House, Oct. 27, 1718.

AN ANSWER BY SHERIDAN

Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos; Perlepidos quidèm; scribendo semper es idem. Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo; Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes, Ne minus insanae reparas quoque damna Dianae, Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit) Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum. O terra et coelum! quàm redit pectus anhelum. Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum? Ex vestro grato poculo, tam saepe prolato, Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales? Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppae gaudia cerno: Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem. Amphora, quàm dulces risus queis pectora mulces, Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho: Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe; Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago.

TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718

Whate'er your predecessors taught us, I have a great esteem for Plautus; And think your boys may gather there-hence More wit and humour than from Terence; But as to comic Aristophanes, The rogue too vicious and too profane is. I went in vain to look for Eupolis Down in the Strand,[1] just where the New Pole[2] is; For I can tell you one thing, that I can, You will not find it in the Vatican. He and Cratinus used, as Horace says, To take his greatest grandees for asses. Poets, in those days, used to venture high; But these are lost full many a century. Thus you may see, dear friend, _ex pede_ hence, My judgment of the old comedians. Proceed to tragics: first Euripides (An author where I sometimes dip a-days) Is rightly censured by the Stagirite, Who says, his numbers do not fadge aright. A friend of mine that author despises So much he swears the very best piece is, For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's; And that a woman in these tragedies, Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is. At least I'm well assured, that no folk lays The weight on him they do on Sophocles. But, above all, I prefer Eschylus, Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us. And now I find my Muse but ill able, To hold out longer in trissyllable. I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty; Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?

[Footnote 1: N.B.--The Strand in London. The fact may not be true; but the rhyme cost me some trouble.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 2: The Maypole. See "The Dunciad," ii, 28. Pope's "Works," Elwin and Courthope, vol. iv.]

THE ANSWER, BY DR. SHERIDAN

Sir,

I thank you for your comedies. I'll stay and read 'em now at home a-days, Because Parcus wrote but sorrily Thy notes, I'll read Lambinus thoroughly; And then I shall be stoutly set a-gog To challenge every Irish Pedagogue. I like your nice epistle critical, Which does in threefold rhymes so witty fall; Upon the comic dram' and tragedy Your notion’s right, but verses maggotty; 'Tis but an hour since I heard a man swear it, The Devil himself could hardly answer it. As for your friend the sage Euripides, I[1] believe you give him now the slip o' days; But mum for that--pray come a Saturday And dine with me, you can't a better day: I'll give you nothing but a mutton chop, Some nappy mellow'd ale with rotten hop, A pint of wine as good as Falern', Which we poor masters, God knows, all earn; We'll have a friend or two, sir, at table, Right honest men, for few're comeatable; Then when our liquor makes us talkative, We'll to the fields, and take a walk at eve. Because I'm troubled much with laziness, These rhymes I've chosen for their easiness.

[Footnote 1: N.B.--You told me you forgot your Greek.]

DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT 1718

Dear Dean, since in _cruxes_ and _puns_ you and I deal, Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle? 'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning, In bed as I lay, sir, a-tossing and turning. You'll find if you read but a few of your histories, All women, as Eve, all women are mysteries. To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager, And make every one of the sex a Belphegor. But that will not do, for I mean to commend them; I swear without jest I an honour intend them. In a sieve, sir, their ancient extraction I quite tell, In a riddle I give you their power and their title. This I told you before; do you know what I mean, sir? "Not I, by my troth, sir."--Then read it again, sir. The reason I send you these lines of rhymes double, Is purely through pity, to save you the trouble Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last, When your Pegasus canter'd in triple, and rid fast. As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnassus, With Phoebus's leave, to run with his asses, He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded, While your fiery steed is whipp'd, spurr'd, bastinaded.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

In reading your letter alone in my hackney, Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh. And when with much labour the matter I crack'd, I found you mistaken in matter of fact. A woman's no sieve, (for with that you begin,) Because she lets out more than e'er she takes in. And that she's a riddle can never be right, For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light. But grant her a sieve, I can say something archer; Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher. Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation, What name for a maid,[1] was the first man's damnation? If your worship will please to explain me this rebus, I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus.

From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11, 1718, past 12 at noon.

[Footnote 1: A damsel, _i.e._, _Adam's Hell_.--_H._ Vir Gin.--_Dublin Edition._]

DR. SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN

Don't think these few lines which I send, a reproach, From my Muse in a car, to your Muse in a coach. The great god of poems delights in a car, Which makes him so bright that we see him from far; For, were he mew'd up in a coach, 'tis allow'd We'd see him no more than we see through a cloud. You know to apply this--I do not disparage Your lines, but I say they're the worse for the carriage. Now first you deny that a woman's a sieve; I say that she is: What reason d'ye give? Because she lets out more than she takes in. Is't that you advance for't? you are still to begin. Your major and minor I both can refute, I'll teach you hereafter with whom to dispute. A sieve keeps in half, deny't if you can. D. "Adzucks, I mistook it, who thought of the bran?" I tell you in short, sir, you[1] should have a pair o' stocks For thinking to palm on your friend such a paradox. Indeed, I confess, at the close you grew better, But you light from your coach when you finish'd your letter. Your thing which you say wants interpretation, What's name for a maiden--the first man's damnation? A damsel--Adam's hell--ay, there I have hit it, Just as you conceived it, just so have I writ it. Since this I've discover'd, I'll make you to know it, That now I'm your Phoebus, and you are my poet. But if you interpret the two lines that follow, I'll again be your poet, and you my Apollo. Why a noble lord's dog, and my school-house this weather, Make up the best catch when they're coupled together?

From my Ringsend car, Sept. 12, 1718, past 5 in the morning, on a repetition day.

[Footnote 1: Begging pardon for the expression to a dignitary of thechurch.--_S._]

TO THE SAME. BY DR. SHERIDAN

12 o'Clock at Noon Sept. 12, 1718.

SIR, Perhaps you may wonder, I send you so soon Another epistle; consider 'tis noon. For all his acquaintance well know that friend Tom is, Whenever he makes one, as good as his promise. Now Phoebus exalted, sits high on his throne, Dividing the heav'ns, dividing my crown, Into poems and business, my skull's split in two, One side for the lawyers, and t'other for you. With my left eye, I see you sit snug in your stall, With my right I'm attending the lawyers that scrawl With my left I behold your bellower a cur chase; With my right I'm a-reading my deeds for a purchase. My left ear's attending the hymns of the choir, My right ear is stunn'd with the noise of the crier. My right hand's inditing these lines to your reverence, My left is indenting for me and heirs ever-hence. Although in myself I'm divided in two, Dear Dean, I shall ne'er be divided from you.

THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

SIR, I cannot but think that we live in a bad age, _O tempora, O mores!_ as 'tis in the adage. My foot was but just set out from my cathedral, When into my hands comes a letter from the droll. I can't pray in quiet for you and your verses; But now let us hear what the Muse from your car says. Hum--excellent good--your anger was stirr'd; Well, punners and rhymers must have the last word. But let me advise you, when next I hear from you, To leave off this passion which does not become you; For we who debate on a subject important, Must argue with calmness, or else will come short on't. For myself, I protest, I care not a fiddle, For a riddle and sieve, or a sieve and a riddle; And think of the sex as you please, I'd as lieve You call them a riddle, as call them a sieve. Yet still you are out, (though to vex you I'm loth,) For I'll prove it impossible they can be both; A school-boy knows this, for it plainly appears That a sieve dissolves riddles by help of the shears; For you can't but have heard of a trick among wizards, To break open riddles with shears or with scissars. Think again of the sieve, and I'll hold you a wager, You'll dare not to question my minor or major.[1] A sieve keeps half in, and therefore, no doubt, Like a woman, keeps in less than it lets out. Why sure, Mr. Poet, your head got a-jar, By riding this morning too long in your car: And I wish your few friends, when they next see your cargo, For the sake of your senses would lay an embargo. You threaten the stocks; I say you are scurrilous And you durst not talk thus, if I saw you at our ale-house. But as for your threats, you may do what you can I despise any poet that truckled to Dan But keep a good tongue, or you'll find to your smart From rhyming in cars, you may swing in a cart. You found out my rebus with very much modesty; But thanks to the lady; I'm sure she's too good to ye: Till she lent you her help, you were in a fine twitter; You hit it, you say;--you're a delicate hitter. How could you forget so ungratefully a lass, And if you be my Phoebus, pray who was your Pallas? As for your new rebus, or riddle, or crux, I will either explain, or repay it by trucks; Though your lords, and your dogs, and your catches, methinks, Are harder than ever were put by the Sphinx. And thus I am fully revenged for your late tricks, Which is all at present from the DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.

From my closet, Sept, 12, 1718, just 12 at noon.

[Footnote 1: Ut tu perperàm argumentaris.--_Scott._]

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

SIR, Your Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin With much greater noise than a conjugal din. A pox of her bawling, her _tempora et mores!_ What are times now to me; a'nt I one of the Tories? You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers; Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears? You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phoebus, To give his assistance to make out my rebus: Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future; When the combat is equal, this God should be neuter. I'm now at the tavern, where I drink all I can, To write with more spirit; I'll drink no more Helicon; For Helicon is water, and water is weak; 'Tis wine on the gross lee, that makes your Muse speak. This I know by her spirit and life; but I think She's much in the wrong to scold in her drink. Her damn'd pointed tongue pierced almost to my heart; Tell me of a cart,--tell me of a ----, I'd have you to tell on both sides her ears, If she comes to my house, that I'll kick her down stairs: Then home she shall limping go, squalling out, O my knee; You shall soon have a crutch to buy for your Melpomene. You may come as her bully, to bluster and swagger; But my ink is my poison, my pen is my dagger: Stand off, I desire, and mark what I say to you, If you come I will make your Apollo shine through you. Don't think, sir, I fear a Dean, as I would fear a dun; Which is all at present from yours, THOMAS SHERIDAN.

THE DEAN TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

SIR, When I saw you to-day, as I went with Lord Anglesey, Lord, said I, who's that parson, how awkwardly dangles he! When whip you trot up, without minding your betters, To the very coach side, and threaten your letters. Is the poison [and dagger] you boast in your jaws, trow? Are you still in your cart with _convitia ex plaustro_? But to scold is your trade, which I soon should be foil'd in, For scolding is just _quasi diceres_--school-din: And I think I may say, you could many good shillings get, Were you drest like a bawd, and sold oysters at Billingsgate; But coach it or cart it, I'd have you know, sirrah, I'll write, though I'm forced to write in a wheelbarrow; Nay, hector and swagger, you'll still find me stanch, And you and your cart shall give me _carte blanche_. Since you write in a cart, keep it _tecta et sarta_, 'Tis all you have for it; 'tis your best Magna Carta; And I love you so well, as I told you long ago, That I'll ne'er give my vote for _Delenda Cart-ago_. Now you write from your cellar, I find out your art, You rhyme as folks fence, in _tierce_ and in _cart_: Your ink is your poison, your pen is what not; Your ink is your drink, your pen is your pot. To my goddess Melpomene, pride of her sex, I gave, as you beg, your most humble respects: The rest of your compliment I dare not tell her, For she never descends so low as the cellar; But before you can put yourself under her banners, She declares from her throne you must learn better manners. If once in your cellar my Phoebus should shine, I tell you I'd not give a fig for your wine; So I'll leave him behind, for I certainly know it, What he ripens above ground, he sours below it. But why should we fight thus, my partner so dear With three hundred and sixty-five poems a-year? Let's quarrel no longer, since Dan and George Rochfort Will laugh in their sleeves: I can tell you they watch for't. Then George will rejoice, and Dan will sing highday: Hoc Ithacus velit, et magni mercentur Atridae. JON. SWIFT.

Written, signed, and sealed, five minutes and eleven seconds after the receipt of yours, allowing seven seconds for sealing and superscribing, from my bed-side, just eleven minutes after eleven, Sept. 15, 1718.

Erratum in your last, 1. antepenult, pro "fear a _Dun_" lege "fear a _Dan_:" ita omnes MSS. quos ego legi, et ita magis congruum tam sensui quam veritati.

TO DR. SHERIDAN[1]

Dec. 14, 1719, Nine at night. SIR,

It is impossible to know by your letter whether the wine is to be bottled to-morrow, or no.

If it be, or be not, why did not you in plain English tell us so?

For my part, it was by mere chance I came to sit with the ladies[2] this night.

And if they had not told me there was a letter from you; and your man Alexander had not gone, and come back from the deanery; and the boy here had not been sent, to let Alexander know I was here, I should have missed the letter outright.

Truly I don't know who's bound to be sending for corks to stop your bottles, with a vengeance.

Make a page of your own age, and send your man Alexander to buy corks; for Saunders already has gone above ten jaunts.

Mrs. Dingley and Mrs. Johnson say, truly they don't care for your wife's company, though they like your wine; but they had rather have it at their own house to drink in quiet.

However, they own it is very civil in Mrs. Sheridan to make the offer; and they cannot deny it.

I wish Alexander safe at St. Catherine's to-night, with all my heart and soul, upon my word and honour:

But I think it base in you to send a poor fellow out so late at this time of year, when one would not turn out a dog that one valued; I appeal to your friend Mr. Connor.

I would present my humble service to my Lady Mountcashel; but truly I thought she would have made advances to have been acquainted with me, as she pretended.

But now I can write no more, for you see plainly my paper is ended.

1 P.S.

I wish, when you prated, your letter you'd dated: Much plague it created. I scolded and rated; My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited. I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited: Your man is belated: the case I have stated; And me you have cheated. My stable’s unslated. Come back t'us well freighted. I remember my late head; and wish you translated, For teasing me.

2 P.S.

Mrs. Dingley desires me singly Her service to present you; hopes that will content you; But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame, For want of your converse, and cannot send one verse.

3 P.S.

You keep such a twattling with you and your bottling; But I see the sum total, we shall ne'er have a bottle; The long and the short, we shall not have a quart, I wish you would sign't, that we have a pint. For all your colloguing,[3] I'd be glad for a knoggin:[4] But I doubt 'tis a sham; you won't give us a dram. 'Tis of shine a mouth moon-ful, you won't part with a spoonful, And I must be nimble, if I can fill my thimble, You see I won't stop, till I come to a drop; But I doubt the oraculum, is a poor supernaculum; Though perhaps you may tell it, for a grace if we smell it. STELLA.

[Footnote 1: In this letter, though written in prose, the reader, upon examining, will find each second sentence rhymes to the former.--_H._]

[Footnote 2: Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: A phrase used in Ireland for a specious appearance of kindness without sincerity.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: A name used in Ireland for the English quartern.--_F._]

DR. SHERIDAN'S ANSWER

I'd have you to know, as sure as you're Dean, On Thursday my cask of Obrien I'll drain; If my wife is not willing, I say she's a quean; And my right to the cellar, egad, I'll maintain As bravely as any that fought at Dunblain: Go tell her it over and over again. I hope, as I ride to the town, it won't rain; For, should it, I fear it will cool my hot brain, Entirely extinguish my poetic vein; And then I should be as stupid as Kain, Who preach'd on three heads, though he mention'd but twain. Now Wardel's in haste, and begins to complain; Your most humble servant, dear Sir, I remain, T. S.--N.

Get Helsham, Walmsley, Delany, And some Grattans, if there be any:[1] Take care you do not bid too many.

[Footnote 1: _I.e._ in Dublin, for they were country clergy.--_F._]

DR. SWIFT'S REPLY

The verses you sent on the bottling your wine Were, in every one's judgment, exceedingly fine; And I must confess, as a dean and divine, I think you inspired by the Muses all nine. I nicely examined them every line, And the worst of them all like a barn-door did shine; O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine! With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine. I know they have many a wicked design; And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine. However, I wish, honest comrade of mine, You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine,[1] Where I hear you are cramm'd every day like a swine; With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine, Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine; So I wish you were toothless, like Lord Masserine. But were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,[2] I wish you would tell me which way you incline. If when you return your road you don't line, On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine, Wherever you bend, wherever you twine, In square, or in opposite, circle, or trine. Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine; I hope you have swill'd with new milk from the kine, As much as the Liffee's outdone by the Rhine; And Dan shall be with us with nose aquiline. If you do not come back we shall weep out our eyne; Or may your gown never be good Lutherine. The beef you have got I hear is a chine; But if too many come, your madam will whine; And then you may kiss the low end of her spine. But enough of this poetry Alexandrine; I hope you will not think this a pasquine.

[Footnote 1: The seat of Lady Mountcashel, near Dublin.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), an Italian poet noted for his satirical and licentious verse,--_W. E. B._]

A COPY OF A COPY OF VERSES FROM THOMAS SHERIDAN, CLERK, TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.[1]

Written July 15, 1721, at night.

I'd have you t' know, George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, That I've learned how verse t' compose trim, Much better b'half th'n you, n'r you, n'r him, And that I'd rid'cule their'nd your flam-flim. Ay b't then, p'rhaps, says you, t's a merry whim, With 'bundance of mark'd notes i' th' rim, So th't I ought n't for t' be morose 'nd t' look grim, Think n't your 'p'stle put m' in a megrim; Though 'n rep't't'on day, I 'ppear ver' slim, Th' last bowl't Helsham's did m' head t' swim, So th't I h'd man' aches 'n v'ry scrubb'd limb, Cause th' top of th' bowl I h'd oft us'd t' skim; And b'sides D'lan' swears th't I h'd swall'w'd s'v'r'l brim- Mers, 'nd that my vis'ge's cov'r'd o'er with r'd pim- Ples: m'r'o'er though m' scull were ('s 'tis n't) 's strong's tim- Ber, 't must have ach'd. Th' clans of th' c'llege Sanh'drim, Pres'nt the'r humbl' and 'fect'nate respects; that’s t' say, D'ln', 'chlin, P. Ludl', Dic' St'wart, H'lsham, Capt'n P'rr' Walmsl', 'nd Long sh'nks Timm.[2]

[Footnote 1: For the persons here alluded to see "The Country Life," vol. i, p. 137.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dr. James Stopford, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]

GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S ANSWER

Dear Sheridan! a gentle pair Of Gaulstown lads (for such they are) Besides a brace of grave divines, Adore the smoothness of thy lines: Smooth as our basin's silver flood, Ere George had robb'd it of its mud; Smoother than Pegasus' old shoe, Ere Vulcan comes to make him new. The board on which we set our a--s, Is not so smooth as are thy verses; Compared with which (and that's enough) A smoothing-iron itself is rough. Nor praise I less that circumcision, By modern poets call'd elision, With which, in proper station placed, Thy polish'd lines are firmly braced.[1] Thus a wise tailor is not pinching, But turns at every seam an inch in: Or else, be sure, your broad-cloth breeches Will ne'er be smooth, nor hold their stitches. Thy verse, like bricks, defy the weather, When smooth'd by rubbing them together; Thy words so closely wedged and short are, Like walls, more lasting without mortar; By leaving out the needless vowels, You save the charge of lime and trowels. One letter still another locks, Each grooved and dovetail'd like a box; Thy muse is tuckt up and succinct; In chains thy syllables are linkt; Thy words together tied in small hanks, Close as the Macedonian phalanx;[2] Or like the _umbo_[3] of the Romans, Which fiercest foes could break by no means. The critic, to his grief will find, How firmly these indentures bind. So, in the kindred painter's art, The shortening is the nicest part. Philologers of future ages, How will they pore upon thy pages! Nor will they dare to break the joints, But help thee to be read with points: Or else, to show their learned labour, you May backward be perused like Hebrew, In which they need not lose a bit Or of thy harmony or wit. To make a work completely fine, Number and weight and measure join; Then all must grant your lines are weighty Where thirty weigh as much as eighty; All must allow your numbers more, Where twenty lines exceed fourscore; Nor can we think your measure short, Where less than forty fill a quart, With Alexandrian in the close, Long, long, long, long, like Dan's long nose.[4]

[Footnote 1: In the Dublin edition: "Makes thy verse smooth, and makes them last."]

[Footnote 2: For a clear description of the phalanx, see Smith's "Greek and Roman Antiquities," p. 488.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The projection in the centre of the shield, which caused the missiles of the enemy to glance off. See Smith, as above, p. 298.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: See _post_, the poems on Dan Jackson's Picture.--_W. E. B._]

GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S INVITATION TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

Gaulstown, Aug. 2, 1721.

Dear Tom, this verse, which however the beginning may appear, yet in the end's good metre, Is sent to desire that, when your August vacation comes, your friends you'd meet here. For why should you stay in that filthy hole, I mean the city so smoky, When you have not one friend left in town, or at least not one that's witty, to joke w' ye? For as for honest John,[1] though I'm not sure on't, yet I'll be hang'd, lest he Be gone down to the county of Wexford with that great peer the Lord Anglesey.[2] O! but I forgot; perhaps, by this time, you may have one come to town, but I don't know whether he be friend or foe, Delany: But, however, if he be come, bring him down, and you shall go back in a fortnight, for I know there's no delaying ye. O! I forgot too: I believe there may be one more, I mean that great fat joker, friend Helsham, he That wrote the prologue,[3] and if you stay with him, depend on't, in the end, he'll sham ye. Bring down Longshanks Jim[4] too; but, now I think on't, he's not yet come from Courtown,[5] I fancy; For I heard, a month ago, that he was down there a-courting sly Nancy. However, bring down yourself, and you bring down all; for, to say it we may venture, In thee Delany's spleen, John's mirth, Helsham's jokes, and the soft soul of amorous Jemmy, centre.

POSTSCRIPT

I had forgot to desire you to bring down what I say you have, and you'll believe me as sure as a gun, and own it; I mean, what no other mortal in the universe can boast of, your own spirit of pun, and own wit. And now I hope you'll excuse this rhyming, which I must say is (though written somewhat at large) trim and clean; And so I conclude, with humble respects as usual Your most dutiful and obedient GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN.

[Footnote 1: Supposed to mean Dr. Walmsley.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Arthur, Earl of Anglesey.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 3: It was customary with Dr. Sheridan to have a Greek play acted by his head class, just before they entered the university; and, accordingly, in the year 1720, the Doctor having fixed on Hippolytus, writ a prologue in English, to be spoken by Master Thom. Putland, one of the youngest children he had in his school. The prologue was very neat and elegant, but extremely puerile, and quite adapted to the childhood of the speaker, who as regularly was taught and rehearsed his part as any of the upper lads did theirs. However, it unfortunately happened that Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, had promised Sheridan that he would go and see his lads perform the tragedy. Upon which Dr. Helsham writ another prologue, wherein he laughed egregiously at Sheridan's; and privately instructed Master Putland how to act his part; and at the same time exacted a promise from the child, that no consideration should make him repeat that prologue which he had been taught by Sheridan. When the play was to be acted, the archbishop attended according to his promise; and Master Putland began Helsham's prologue, and went through it to the amazement of Sheridan; which fired him to such a degree (although he was one of the best-natured men in the world) that he would have entirely put off the play, had it not been in respect to the archbishop, who was indeed highly complimented in Helsham's performance. When the play was over, the archbishop was very desirous to hear Sheridan's prologue; but all the entreaties of the archbishop, the child's father, and Sheridan, could not prevail with Master Putland to repeat it, having, he said, promised faithfully that he would not, upon any account whatever; and therefore insisted that he would keep his word.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.--_F._]

[Footnote 5: The seat of ---- Hussay, Esq., in the county of Kildare.--_F._]

TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.

UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VERSES. BY DR. DELANY IN SHERIDAN'S NAME[1]

Hail, human compound quadrifarious, Invincible as wight Briareus![2] Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one, Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon![3] O may your vastness deign t' excuse The praises of a puny Muse, Unable, in her utmost flight, To reach thy huge colossian height! T' attempt to write like thee were frantic, Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic. Yet let me bless, in humbler strain, Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian[4] vein, Pour'd out t' enrich thy native isle, As Egypt wont to be with Nile. O, how I joy to see thee wander, In many a winding loose meander, In circling mazes, smooth and supple, And ending in a clink quadruple; Loud, yet agreeable withal, Like rivers rattling in their fall! Thine, sure, is poetry divine, Where wit and majesty combine; Where every line, as huge as seven, If stretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven: Here all comparing would be slandering, The least is more than Alexandrine. Against thy verse Time sees with pain, He whets his envious scythe in vain; For though from thee he much may pare, Yet much thou still wilt have to spare. Thou hast alone the skill to feast With Roman elegance of taste, Who hast of rhymes as vast resources As Pompey's caterer of courses. O thou, of all the Nine inspired! My languid soul, with teaching tired, How is it raptured, when it thinks Of thy harmonious set of chinks; Each answering each in various rhymes, Like echo to St. Patrick's chimes! Thy Muse, majestic in her rage, Moves like Statira[5] on the stage; And scarcely can one page sustain The length of such a flowing train: Her train of variegated dye Shows like Thaumantia's[6] in the sky; Alike they glow, alike they please, Alike imprest by Phoebus' rays. Thy verse--(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it) To what, to what shall I compare it? 'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on, The famous statue of Laocoon. 'Tis like,--O yes, 'tis very like it, The long, long string, with which you fly kite. 'Tis like what you, and one or two more, Roar to your Echo[7] in good humour; And every couplet thou hast writ Concludes with Rhattah-whittah-whit.[8]

[Footnote 1: These were written all in circles, one within another, as appears from the observations in the following poem by Dr. Swift.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: The hundred-armed giant, "centumgeminus Briareus," Virg., "Aen.," vi, 287; also called Aegaeon, "centum cui brachia dicunt," Virg., "Aen.," x, 565; see Heyne's notes.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: A mythic king, having three bodies, whose arms were carried off by Hercules.--Lucr., v, 28, and Munro's note; Virg. "Aen.," vii, 662, and viii, 202:

"maxumus ultor Tergemini nece Geryonae spoliisque superbus Alcides aderat taurosque hac victor agebat Ingentis, vallemque boves amnemque tenebant."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Cambyses, the warrior king of Persia, whose name is the emblem of bravado.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Represented as the perfection of female beauty in "Cassandra," a romance by La Calprenède, romancier et auteur dramatique, 1610-1663,--_Larousse.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Iris, daughter of Thaumas, and the messenger of Juno, descending and returning on the rainbow.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: At Gaulstown there is so famous an echo, that if you repeat two lines of Virgil out of a speaking-trumpet, you may hear the nymph return them to your ear with great propriety and clearness.--_F._]

[Footnote 8: These words allude to their amusements with the echo, having no other signification but to express the sound of stones when beaten one against the other, returned by the echo.--_F._]

TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN UPON HIS VERSES WRITTEN IN CIRCLES BY DR. SWIFT

It never was known that circular letters, By humble companions were sent to their betters, And, as to the subject, our judgment, _meherc'le_, Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle. But now for your verses; we tell you, _imprimis_, The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is, That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound, And, before we find either, our noddles turn round. Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant, To give us your measures of line by a quadrant. But we took our dividers, and found your d--n'd metre, In each single verse, took up a diameter. But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre?[1] 'Twill appear to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd, For the chord of your circle is now in their hand. The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether, By which your jade Pegasus, fix'd in a tether, As his betters are used, shall be lash'd round the ring, Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string. Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass, To encroach on his art by writing of bombast; And has taken just now a firm resolution To answer your style without circumlocution. Lady Betty[2] presents you her service most humble, And is not afraid your worship will grumble, That she make of your verses a hoop for Miss Tam.[3] Which is all at present; and so I remain--

[Footnote 1: There were four human figures in the centre of the circular verses.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, Esq.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Miss Thomason, Lady Betty's daughter, then, perhaps, about a year old; afterwards married to Gustavus Lambert, Esq., of Paynstown, in the county of Meath.--_Scott._]

ON DR. SHERIDAN'S CIRCULAR VERSES BY MR. GEORGE ROCHFORT

With music and poetry equally blest, A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest: "Great author of harmony, verses, and light! Assisted by thee, I both fiddle and write. Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day, My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away. Thy substitute here, Vice Apollo, disdains To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains; Thy manual signet refuses to put To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut. Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus! and grant Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want. Though the Dean and Delany transcendently shine, O brighten one solo or sonnet of mine! With them I'm content thou shouldst make thy abode; But visit thy servant in jig or in ode; Make one work immortal: 'tis all I request." Apollo look'd pleased; and, resolving to jest, Replied, "Honest friend, I've consider'd thy case; Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humorous face. Thy petition I grant: the boon is not great; Thy works shall continue; and here's the receipt. On rondeaus hereafter thy fiddle-strings spend: Write verses in circles: they never shall end."

ON DAN JACKSON'S PICTURE, CUT IN SILK AND PAPER[1]

To fair Lady Betty Dan sat for his picture, And defied her to draw him so oft as he piqued her, He knew she'd no pencil or colouring by her, And therefore he thought he might safely defy her. Come sit, says my lady; then whips up her scissar, And cuts out his coxcomb in silk in a trice, sir. Dan sat with attention, and saw with surprise How she lengthen'd his chin, how she hollow'd his eyes; But flatter'd himself with a secret conceit, That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat. Lady Betty observed it, then pulls out a pin, And varies the grain of the stuff to his grin: And, to make roasted silk to resemble his raw-bone, She raised up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone; Till at length in exactest proportion he rose, From the crown of his head to the arch of his nose; And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all, 'Tis certain the copy had outdone the original. Well, that's but my outside, says Dan, with a vapour; Say you so? says my lady; I've lined it with paper.

PATR. DELANY _sculpsit_.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 96. Dan Jackson's nose seems to have been a favourite subject for raillery, as in this and some following pieces.--_W. E. B._]

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Clarissa draws her scissars from the case To draw the lines of poor Dan Jackson's face; One sloping cut made forehead, nose, and chin, A nick produced a mouth, and made him grin, Such as in tailor's measure you have seen. But still were wanting his grimalkin eyes, For which gray worsted stocking paint supplies. Th' unravell'd thread through needle's eye convey'd, Transferr'd itself into his pasteboard head. How came the scissars to be thus outdone? The needle had an eye, and they had none. O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan-- You'll swear the pasteboard was the better man. "The devil!" says he, "the head is not so full!" Indeed it is--behold the paper skull.

THO. SHERIDAN _sculp._

ON THE SAME

If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it, I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it.

THO. SHERIDAN _sculp._

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Dan's evil genius in a trice Had stripp'd him of his coin at dice. Chloe, observing this disgrace, On Pam cut out his rueful face. By G--, says Dan, 'tis very hard, Cut out at dice, cut out at card!

G. ROCHFORT _sculp._

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Whilst you three merry poets traffic To give us a description graphic Of Dan's large nose in modern sapphic;

I spend my time in making sermons, Or writing libels on the Germans, Or murmuring at Whigs' preferments.

But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort, And look in English, French, and Scotch for't, At last I'm fairly forced to botch for't.

Bid Lady Betty recollect her, And tell, who was it could direct her To draw the face of such a spectre?

I must confess, that as to me, sirs, Though I ne'er saw her hold the scissars, I now could safely swear it is hers.

'Tis true, no nose could come in better; 'Tis a vast subject stuff'd with matter, Which all may handle, none can flatter.

Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows, That not the wisest mortal knows What fortune may befall his nose.

Show me the brightest Irish toast, Who from her lover e'er could boast Above a song or two at most:

For thee three poets now are drudging all, To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all, Both of the picture and original.

Thy nose's length and fame extend So far, dear Dan, that every friend Tries who shall have it by the end.

And future poets, as they rise, Shall read with envy and surprise Thy nose outshining Celia's eyes.

JON. SWIFT.

DAN JACKSON'S DEFENCE

My verse little better you'll find than my face is; A word to the wise--_ut pictura poesis_.

Three merry lads, with envy stung, Because Dan's face is better hung, Combined in verse to rhyme it down, And in its place set up their own; As if they'd run it down much better By number of their feet in metre. Or that its red did cause their spite, Which made them draw in black and white. Be that as 'twill, this is most true, They were inspired by what they drew. Let then such critics know, my face Gives them their comeliness and grace: While every line of face does bring A line of grace to what they sing. But yet, methinks, though with disgrace Both to the picture and the face, I should name them who do rehearse The story of the picture farce; The squire, in French as hard as stone, Or strong as rock, that's all as one, On face on cards is very brisk, sirs, Because on them you play at whisk, sirs. But much I wonder, why my crany Should envied be by De-el-any: And yet much more, that half-namesake Should join a party in the freak. For sure I am it was not safe Thus to abuse his better half, As I shall prove you, Dan, to be, Divisim and conjunctively. For if Dan love not Sherry, can Sherry be anything to Dan? This is the case whene'er you see Dan makes nothing of Sherry; Or should Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en Then Dan would be poor Sherridane 'Tis hard then he should be decried By Dan, with Sherry by his side. But, if the case must be so hard, That faces suffer by a card, Let critics censure, what care I? Backbiters only we defy, Faces are free from injury.

MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY

You say your face is better hung Than ours--by what? by nose or tongue? In not explaining you are wrong to us, sir.

Because we thus must state the case, That you have got a hanging face, Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace of noose, sir.

But yet be not cast down: I see A weaver will your hangman be: You'll only hang in tapestry with many;

And then the ladies, I suppose, Will praise your longitude of nose, For latent charms within your clothes, dear Danny.

Thus will the fair of every age From all parts make their pilgrimage, Worship thy nose with pious rage of love, sir:

All their religion will be spent About thy woven monument, And not one orison be sent to Jove, sir.

You the famed idol will become, As gardens graced in ancient Rome, By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom of night.[1]

O happy Dan! thrice happy sure! Thy fame for ever shall endure, Who after death can love secure at sight.

So far I thought it was my duty To dwell upon thy boasted beauty; Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye in answer

To that part where you carry on This paradox, that rock and stone In your opinion, are all one: How can, sir,

A man of reasoning so profound So stupidly be run a-ground, As things so different to confound t'our senses?

Except you judged them by the knock Of near an equal hardy block; Such an experimental stroke convinces.

Then might you be, by dint of reason, A proper judge on this occasion; 'Gainst feeling there's no disputation, is granted:

Therefore to thy superior wit, Who made the trial, we submit; Thy head to prove the truth of it we wanted.

In one assertion you're to blame, Where Dan and Sherry's made the same, Endeavouring to have your name refined, sir:

You'll see most grossly you mistook, If you consult your spelling-book, (The better half you say you took,) you'll find, sir,

S, H, E, she--and R, I, ri, Both put together make Sherry; D, A, N, Dan--makes up the three syllables;

Dan is but one, and Sherry two, Then, sir, your choice will never do; Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you the tables.

[Footnote 1: Priapus, the god of procreation and fertility, both human and agricultural, whose statues, painted red, were placed in gardens. Confer Horat., Sat. I, viii, 1-8; Virg., "Georg.", iv, 110-11. In India, the same deity is to be seen in retired parts of the gardens, as he is described by Horace--"ruber porrectus ab inguine palus"--and where he is worshipped by the matrons for the same reason.--_W. E. B._]

DR. DELANY'S REPLY

Assist me, my Muse, while I labour to limn him. _Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae persimilem._ You look and you write with so different a grace, That I envy your verse, though I did not your face. And to him that thinks rightly, there's reason enough, 'Cause one is as smooth as the other is rough. But much I'm amazed you should think my design Was to rhyme down your nose, or your harlequin grin, Which you yourself wonder the de'el should malign. And if 'tis so strange, that your monstership's crany Should be envied by him, much less by Delany; Though I own to you, when I consider it stricter, I envy the painter, although not the picture. And justly she's envied, since a fiend of Hell Was never drawn right but by her and Raphael. Next, as to the charge, which you tell us is true, That we were inspired by the subject we drew. Inspired we were, and well, sir, you knew it; Yet not by your nose, but the fair one that drew it; Had your nose been the Muse, we had ne'er been inspired, Though perhaps it might justly 've been said we were fired, As to the division of words in your staves, Like my countryman's horn-comb, into three halves, I meddle not with 't, but presume to make merry, You call'd Dan one half, and t'other half Sherry: Now if Dan's a half, as you call't o'er and o'er, Then it can't be denied that Sherry's two more. For pray give me leave to say, sir, for all you, That Sherry's at least of double the value. But perhaps, sir, you did it to fill up the verse; So crowds in a concert (like actors in farce) Play two parts in one, when scrapers are scarce. But be that as 'twill, you'll know more anon, sir, When Sheridan sends to merry Dan answer.

SHERIDAN'S REPLY

Three merry lads you own we are; 'Tis very true, and free from care: But envious we cannot bear, believe, sir:

For, were all forms of beauty thine, Were you like Nereus soft and fine, We should not in the least repine, or grieve, sir.

Then know from us, most beauteous Dan, That roughness best becomes a man; 'Tis women should be pale, and wan, and taper;

And all your trifling beaux and fops, Who comb their brows, and sleek their chops, Are but the offspring of toy-shops, mere vapour.

We know your morning hours you pass To cull and gather out a face; Is this the way you take your glass? Forbear it:

Those loads of paint upon your toilet Will never mend your face, but spoil it, It looks as if you did parboil it: Drink claret.

Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean, That they're like Cynthia in the wane, Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean, or pullet:

See what by drinking you have done: You've made your phiz a skeleton, From the long distance of your crown, t' your gullet.

A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME

Wearied with saying grace and prayer, I hasten'd down to country air, To read your answer, and prepare reply to't:

But your fair lines so grossly flatter, Pray do they praise me or bespatter? I must suspect you mean the latter-- Ah! slyboot!

It must be so! what else, alas! Can mean by culling of a face, And all that stuff of toilet, glass, and box-comb?

But be't as 'twill, this you must grant, That you're a daub, whilst I but paint; Then which of us two is the quaint- er coxcomb?

I value not your jokes of noose, Your gibes and all your foul abuse, More than the dirt beneath my shoes, nor fear it.

Yet one thing vexes me, I own, Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone; To be called lean by a skeleton, who'd bear it?

'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends, You seem to praise, to make amends, And yet, before your stanza ends, you flout me,

'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes, For every one that knows me, knows That I have nothing like my nose about me:

I pass now where you fleer and laugh, 'Cause I call Dan my better half! O there you think you have me safe! But hold, sir;

Is not a penny often found To be much greater than a pound! By your good leave, my most profound and bold sir, Dan's noble metal, Sherry base; So Dan's the better, though the less, An ounce of gold’s worth ten of brass, dull pedant!

As to your spelling, let me see, If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry, Good spelling-master: your crany has lead in't.

ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME

Three days for answer I have waited, I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose Of thy dimension's fit for prose; But every one that knows Dan, knows thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1] Thy fame, thy genius, now declines, proud boaster.

I hear with some concern your roar And flying think to quit the score, By clapping billets on your door and posts, sir.

Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant, I'm grieved to hear your banishment, But pleased to find you do relent and cry on.

I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff, But now I'll secret keep your stuff; For know, prostration is enough to th' lion.

[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.--_F._]

SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION BY THE DEAN

Miserae cognosce prooemia rixae, Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum.[1]

Poor Sherry, inglorious, To Dan the victorious, Presents, as 'tis fitting, Petition and greeting.

To you, victorious and brave, Your now subdued and suppliant slave Most humbly sues for pardon; Who when I fought still cut me down, And when I vanquish'd, fled the town Pursued and laid me hard on.

Now lowly crouch'd, I cry _peccavi_, And prostrate, supplicate _pour ma vie_; Your mercy I rely on; For you my conqueror and my king, In pardoning, as in punishing, Will show yourself a lion.

Alas! sir, I had no design, But was unwarily drawn in; For spite I ne'er had any; 'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name; The de'il too that owed me a shame, The devil and Delany;

They tempted me t' attack your highness, And then, with wonted wile and slyness, They left me in the lurch: Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween, I've nothing left to vent my spleen But ferula and birch:

And they, alas! yield small relief, Seem rather to renew my grief, My wounds bleed all anew: For every stroke goes to my heart And at each lash I feel the smart Of lash laid on by you.

[Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.--_W. E. B._]

THE PARDON

The suit which humbly you have made Is fully and maturely weigh'd; And as 'tis your petition, I do forgive, for well I know, Since you're so bruised, another blow Would break the head of Priscian.[1]

'Tis not my purpose or intent That you should suffer banishment; I pardon, now you've courted; And yet I fear this clemency Will come too late to profit thee, For you're with grief transported.

However, this I do command, That you your birch do take in hand, Read concord and syntax on; The bays, your own, are only mine, Do you then still your nouns decline, Since you've declined Dan Jackson.

[Footnote 1: The Roman grammarian, who flourished about A.D. 450, and has left a work entitled "Commentariorum grammaticorum Libri xviii."--_W. E. B._]

THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL JACKSON

MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN,

--mediocribus esse poetis Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnae.[1]

To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace's Art of Poetry, which I have chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my speech, you will find they fall naturally into this sense:

For poets who can't tell [high] rocks from stones, The rope, the hangman, and the gallows groans.

I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parnassus, commonly called the Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream, and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was made:

You'll have a gosling, call it Dan, And do not make your goose a swan. 'Tis true, because the God of Wit To get him in that shape thought fit, He'll have some glowworm sparks of it. Venture you may to turn him loose, But let it be to another goose. The time will come, the fatal time, When he shall dare a swan to rhyme; The tow'ring swan comes sousing down, And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown. From that sad time, and sad disaster, He'll be a lame, crack'd poetaster. At length for stealing rhymes and triplets, He'll be content to hang in giblets.

You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and literally come to pass; for it was my misfortune to engage with that Pindar of the times, Tom Sheridan, who did so confound me by sousing on my crown, and did so batter my pinions, that I was forced to make use of borrowed wings, though my false accusers have deposed that I stole my feathers from Hopkins, Sternhold, Silvester, Ogilby, Durfey, etc., for which I now forgive them and all the world. I die a poet; and this ladder shall be my Gradus ad Parnassum; and I hope the critics will have mercy on my works.

Then lo, I mount as slowly as I sung, And then I'll make a line for every rung;[2] There's nine, I see,--the Muses, too, are nine. Who would refuse to die a death like mine! 1. Thou first rung, Clio, celebrate my name; 2. Euterp, in tragic numbers do the same. 3. This rung, I see, Terpsichore's thy flute; 4. Erato, sing me to the Gods; ah, do't: 5. Thalia, don't make me a comedy; 6. Urania, raise me tow'rds the starry sky: 7. Calliope, to ballad-strains descend, 8. And Polyhymnia, tune them for your friend; 9. So shall Melpomene mourn my fatal end. POOR DAN JACKSON.

[Footnote 1: A variation from: "mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae." _Epist. ad Pisones.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder; still used in every part of Ireland.--_Scott_.]

TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON TO BE HUMBLY PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN PERSON, WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED. TO BE DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. SHERIDAN

DEAR DAN,

Here I return my trust, nor ask One penny for remittance; If I have well perform'd my task, Pray send me an acquittance.

Too long I bore this weighty pack, As Hercules the sky; Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back, Let me be stander-by.

Not all the witty things you speak In compass of a day, Not half the puns you make a-week, Should bribe his longer stay.

With me you left him out at nurse, Yet are you not my debtor; For, as he hardly can be worse, I ne'er could make him better.

He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes, Just as he did before; And, when he's lash'd a hundred times, He rhymes and puns the more.

When rods are laid on school-boys' bums, The more they frisk and skip: The school-boys' top but louder hums The more they use the whip.

Thus, a lean beast beneath a load (A beast of Irish breed) Will, in a tedious dirty road, Outgo the prancing steed.

You knock him down and down in vain, And lay him flat before ye, For soon as he gets up again, He'll strut, and cry, Victoria!

At every stroke of mine, he fell, 'Tis true he roar'd and cried; But his impenetrable shell Could feel no harm beside.

The tortoise thus, with motion slow, Will clamber up a wall; Yet, senseless to the hardest blow, Gets nothing but a fall.

Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I, Attack his pericrany? And, since it is in vain to try, We'll send him to Delany.

POSTSCRIPT

Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry, Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery, But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says, He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses, For omitting the first (where I make a comparison, With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison) Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise. So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal? And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit, (For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate, The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target; Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could, But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood; While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him, While t'other, enraged that he could not once prick him, Cried, "Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore, Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!" Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man, Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan; For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough, The devil himself can't get through his buff. Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard, Not only to make him your shield, but your vizard; And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar, Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore. Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it, You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet; With the din of which tube my head you so bother, That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other.

You made me in your last a goose; I lay my life on't you are wrong, To raise me by such foul abuse; My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue; And slit, just like a bird will chatter, And like a bird do something more; When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter, I'll change you to a black-a-moor.

I'll write while I have half an eye in my head; I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead. Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave, I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1]

[Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._]

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean, To see you live, so often slain. My arrows fly and fly in vain, But still I try and try again. I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein; Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain, Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean; I will not tell, because it's plain. Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane; If so, from pen and ink refrain. Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain For her and you; your life's a scene Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane, Enough to crack the strongest brain. Now to conclude, I do remain, Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN

Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance. You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer; Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer? If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye, And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury, I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk; I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk: Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding, I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.

MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723

Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head! You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred. I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth; I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name. Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin; And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin: He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole body: My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy. And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose: Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober: Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked college. You say you will eat grass on his grave:[1] a Christian eat grass! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass: But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye; Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true story: And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I? And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil: I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil. Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here; I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year. And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking: Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;) My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school-- I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool. Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail. And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter; For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better. Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers: And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs; Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand; And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command, MARY.

[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 349.--_W.E.B_.]

A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE

Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw: In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw; A temper the devil himself could not bridle; Impertinent mixture of busy and idle; As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed; She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit; A housewife in bed, at table a slattern; For all an example, for no one a pattern. Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3] and Merry Dan,[4] Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?

[Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.]

[Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.]

[Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.]

[Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.]

ON STEALING A CROWN, WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP

Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes, Like ghost I glide along your floor, And softly shut the parlour door: For, should I break your sweet repose, Who knows what money you might lose: Since oftentimes it has been found, A dream has given ten thousand pound? Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on, And all you get shall be your own; Provided you to this agree, That all you lose belongs to me.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

So, about twelve at night, the punk Steals from the cully when he's drunk: Nor is contented with a treat, Without her privilege to cheat: Nor can I the least difference find, But that you left no clap behind. But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye, My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha'penny To eat my meat and drink my medlicot, And then to give me such a deadly cut-- But 'tis observed, that men in gowns Are most inclined to plunder crowns. Could you but change a crown as easy As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye! I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine's Knew how to set you better patterns; For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3] And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em.

Saturday night.

[Footnote 1: A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the Dean had a great esteem.--_Scott_.]

A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S SCHOOL. SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS

AS in a silent night a lonely swain, 'Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain, To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes, And every look finds out a new surprise; So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view Our lower sphere made more serene by you. O! could such light in my dark bosom shine, What life, what vigour, should adorn each line! Beauty and virtue should be all my theme, And Venus brighten my poetic flame. The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun; Majestic light his feeble art defies, And for presuming, robs him of his eyes. Then blame your power, that my inferior lays Sink far below your too exalted praise: Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain; No, we're sincere,--to flatter you were vain. You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied, And all perfections but your beauties hide. Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind, Nor frown on those you see so well inclined To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.

THE EPILOGUE

Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell Have we not play'd our parts extremely well? We think we did, but if you do complain, We're all content to act the play again: 'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most, And time well spent in school cannot be lost. But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above? We guess'd long since you all desired to move: But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir, Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1] Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play; He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay. Though this new method may provoke your laughter, To act plays first, and understand them after; We do not care, for we will have our humour, And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more. Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge; How much they've read, I leave you all to judge.

[Footnote 1: The vulgar pronunciation of the word construe is here intended.--_W. E. B._]

THE SONG

A parody on the popular song beginning, "My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent."

My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent, When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went; For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest; Was ever a toper so merrily blest? But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown, Because I must go to my wife back to town; To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear," And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer. My daughter I ever was pleased to see Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee: My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said, Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head: But now out of humour, I with a sour look, Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book; And I'll give her another; for why should she play, Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away? Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become, That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum? Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile, While we sit carousing and drinking the while? Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done, Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone. Then since it is so, bring me here a supply; Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S GIVEN HIM AT QUILCA. BY SHERIDAN 1723

How few can be of grandeur sure! The high may fall, the rich be poor. The only favourite at court, To-morrow may be Fortune's sport; For all her pleasure and her aim Is to destroy both power and fame. Of this the Dean is an example, No instance is more plain and ample. The world did never yet produce, For courts a man of greater use. Nor has the world supplied as yet, With more vivacity and wit; Merry alternately and wise, To please the statesman, and advise. Through all the last and glorious reign, Was nothing done without the Dean; The courtier's prop, the nation's pride; But now, alas! he's thrown aside; He's quite forgot, and so's the queen, As if they both had never been. To see him now a mountaineer! Oh! what a mighty fall is here! From settling governments and thrones, To splitting rocks, and piling stones. Instead of Bolingbroke and Anna, Shane Tunnally, and Bryan Granna, Oxford and Ormond he supplies, In every Irish Teague he spies: So far forgetting his old station, He seems to like their conversation, Conforming to the tatter'd rabble, He learns their Irish tongue to gabble; And, what our anger more provokes, He's pleased with their insipid jokes; Then turns and asks them who do lack a Good plug, or pipefull of tobacco. All cry they want, to every man He gives, extravagant, a span. Thus are they grown more fond than ever, And he is highly in their favour. Bright Stella, Quilca's greatest pride, For them he scorns and lays aside; And Sheridan is left alone All day, to gape, and stretch, and groan; While grumbling, poor, complaining Dingley, Is left to care and trouble singly. All o'er the mountains spreads the rumour, Both of his bounty and good humour; So that each shepherdess and swain Comes flocking here to see the Dean. All spread around the land, you'd swear That every day we kept a fair. My fields are brought to such a pass, I have not left a blade of grass; That all my wethers and my beeves Are slighted by the very thieves. At night right loath to quit the park, His work just ended by the dark, With all his pioneers he comes, To make more work for whisk and brooms. Then seated in an elbow-chair, To take a nap he does prepare; While two fair damsels from the lawns, Lull him asleep with soft cronawns. Thus are his days in delving spent, His nights in music and content; He seems to gain by his distress, His friends are more, his honours less.

TO QUILCA A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR. 1725

Let me thy properties explain: A rotten cabin, dropping rain: Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke; Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke. Here elements have lost their uses, Air ripens not, nor earth produces: In vain we make poor Sheelah[1] toil, Fire will not roast, nor water boil. Through all the valleys, hills, and plains, The goddess Want, in triumph reigns; And her chief officers of state, Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.

THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE 1725

Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters; Not seen by our betters.

THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE

A companion with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews; Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.

A FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE BELONGING TO ---- ROOM IN T. C. D. IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT'S MANNER. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1725

----quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.[1]

This description of a scholar's room in Trinity College, Dublin, was found among Mr. Smith's papers. It is not in the Dean's hand, but seems to have been the production of Sheridan.

Imprimis, there's a table blotted, A tatter'd hanging all bespotted. A bed of flocks, as I may rank it, Reduced to rug and half a blanket. A tinder box without a flint, An oaken desk with nothing in't; A pair of tongs bought from a broker, A fender and a rusty poker; A penny pot and basin, this Design'd for water, that for piss; A broken-winded pair of bellows, Two knives and forks, but neither fellows. Item, a surplice, not unmeeting, Either for table-cloth, or sheeting; There is likewise a pair of breeches, But patch'd, and fallen in the stitches, Hung up in study very little, Plaster'd with cobweb and spittle, An airy prospect all so pleasing, From my light window without glazing, A trencher and a College bottle, Piled up on Locke and Aristotle. A prayer-book, which he seldom handles A save-all and two farthing candles. A smutty ballad, musty libel, A Burgersdicius[2] and a Bible. The C****[3] Seasons and the Senses By Overton, to save expenses. Item, (if I am not much mistaken,) A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon. A candlestick without a snuffer, Whereby his fingers often suffer. Two odd old shoes I should not skip here, Each strapless serves instead of slippers, And chairs a couple, I forgot 'em, But each of them without a bottom. Thus I in rhyme have comprehended His goods, and so my schedule's ended.

[Footnote 1: Virg., "Aen.," ii, 5.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Francis Burgersdicius, author of "An Argument to prove that the 39th section of the Lth chapter of the Statutes given by Queen Elizabeth to the University of Cambridge includes the whole Statutes of that University, with an answer to the Argument and the Author's reply." London, 1727. He was one of those logicians that Swift so disliked.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Illegible. John Overton, 1640-1708, a dealer in mezzotints.--_W. E. B._]

PALINODIA[1]

HORACE,