Dare you dispute, you saucy brute,And think there's no refellingYour scurvy lays, and senseless praiseYou give to Ballyspellin?Howe'er you flounce, I here pronounce,Your medicine is repelling;Your water's mud, and sours the bloodWhen drunk at Ballyspellin.Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs,You thither are compelling,Will back be sent worse than they went,From nasty Ballyspellin.Llewellyn why? As well may IName honest Doctor Pellin;So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes,To bring in Ballyspellin.No subject fit to try your wit,When you went colonelling:But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues,You met at Ballyspellin.Our lasses fair, say what you dare,Who sowins[2] make with shelling,At Market-hill more beaux can kill,Than yours at Ballyspellin.Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript,To wash herself our well in,A bum so white ne'er came in sightAt paltry Ballyspellin.Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear;Of Holland not an ell in,No, not a rag, whate'er your brag,Is found at Ballyspellin.But Tom will prate at any rate,All other nymphs expelling:Because he gets a few grisettesAt lousy Ballyspellin.There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane,Just o'er against the Bell inn;Where can you meet a lass so sweet,Round all your Ballyspellin?We have a girl deserves an earl;She came from Enniskellin;So fair, so young, no such amongThe belles of Ballyspellin.How would you stare, to see her there,The foggy mists dispelling,That cloud the brows of every blowseWho lives at Ballyspellin!Now, as I live, I would not giveA stiver or a skellin,To towse and kiss the fairest missThat leaks at Ballyspellin.Whoe'er will raise such lies as theseDeserves a good cudgelling:Who falsely boasts of belles and toastsAt dirty Ballyspellin.My rhymes are gone to all but one,Which is, our trees are felling;As proper quite as those you write,To force in Ballyspellin.
[Footnote 1: This answer, which seems to have been made while Swift wason a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, "in a mere jest and innocentmerriment," was resented by Sheridan as an affront on the lady andhimself, "against all the rules of reason, taste, good nature, judgment,gratitude, or common manners." See "The History of the Second Solomon,""Prose Works," xi, 157. The mutual irritation soon passed, and the Deanand Sheridan resumed their intimate friendship.—W. E. B.][Footnote 2: A food much used in Scotland, the north of Ireland, andother parts. It is made of oatmeal, and sometimes of the shellings ofoats; and known by the names of sowins or flummery.—F.]
Nov. 23, at night, 1731.SIR,When I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick;I'm so full of pity I never abuse sick;And the patientest patient ever you knew sick;Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick.I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick:She mended at first, but now she's anew sick.Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick.Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick.Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick?Lady Santry got out of the church[3] when she grew sick,And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick.Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick:For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick?Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick,Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick.Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene'er she does brew, sick.My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick,And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick:But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick:And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick:For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick,And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick.Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick;But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick,And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick.So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick;You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick;So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.[Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as aspecimen of thosebagatellesfor which the Dean hath perhaps been tooseverely censured.—H.][Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and NaturalPhilosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath,Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as "the most eminentphysician in this city and kingdom." He was one of the brilliant literarycoterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.—W. E. B..][Footnote 3: St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia'sday was usually performed.—F.][Footnote 4:VideGrattan,interBelchamp and Clonshogh.—DublinEdition.]
Nov. 23, at night.If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick.This night I came home with a very cold dew sick,And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick;But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick,Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.
The Doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick:I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick,For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick,Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick:Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick:And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick,The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick,And stopp'd the distemper, as being but new sick.The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole crew sick;Had we two been there, it would have made me and you sick:A lady that long'd, is by eating of glue sick;Did you ever know one in a very good Q sick?I'm told that my wife is by winding a clew sick;The doctors have made her by rhyme[1] and by rue sick.There's a gamester in town, for a throw that he threw sick,And yet the whole trade of his dice he'll pursue sick;I've known an old miser for paying his due sick;At present I'm grown by a pinch of my shoe sick,And what would you have me with verses to do sick?Send rhymes, and I'll send you some others in lieu sick.Of rhymes I have plenty,And therefore send twenty.Answered the same day when sent, Nov. 23.I desire you will carry both these to the Doctor together with his own;and let him know we are not persons to be insulted.I was at Howth to-day, and staid abroad a-visiting till just now.Tuesday Evening, Nov. 23, 1731."Can you match with me,Who send thirty-three?You must get fourteen more,To make up thirty-four:But, if me you can conquer,I'll own you a strong cur."[2]This morning I'm growing, by smelling of yew, sick;My brother's come over with gold from Peru sick;Last night I came home in a storm that then blew sick;This moment my dog at a cat I halloo sick;I hear from good hands, that my poor cousin Hugh's sick;By quaffing a bottle, and pulling a screw sick:And now there's no more I can write (you'll excuse) sick;You see that I scorn to mention word music.I'll do my best,To send the rest;Without a jest,I'll stand the test.These lines that I send you, I hope you'll peruse sick;I'll make you with writing a little more news sick;Last night I came home with drinking of booze sick;My carpenter swears that he'll hack and he'll hew sick.An officer's lady, I'm told, is tattoo sick;I'm afraid that the line thirty-four you will view sick.Lord! I could write a dozen more;You see I've mounted thirty-four.[Footnote 1: Time.—Dublin Edition.][Footnote 2: The lines "thus marked" were written by Dr. Swift, at thebottom of Dr. Helsham's twenty lines; and the following fourteen wereafterwards added on the same paper.—N.]
An oaken broken elbow-chair;A caudle cup without an ear;A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead;A box of deal, without a lid;A pair of tongs, but out of joint;A back-sword poker, without point;A pot that's crack'd across, around,With an old knotted garter bound;An iron lock, without a key;A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey;A curtain, worn to half a stripe;A pair of bellows, without pipe;A dish, which might good meat afford once;An Ovid, and an old Concordance;A bottle-bottom, wooden-platterOne is for meal, and one for water;There likewise is a copper skillet,Which runs as fast out as you fill it;A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all,And thus his household goods you have all.These, to your lordship, as a friend,'Till you have built, I freely lend:They'll serve your lordship for a shift;Why not as well as Doctor Swift?[Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented tothe Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a petition, to Swift's greatsurprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at thetime.—Scott.]
To make a writer miss his end,You've nothing else to do but mend.I often tried in vain to findA simile[2] for womankind,A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,In every circumstance to hit 'em.[3]Through every beast and bird I went,I ransack'd every element;And, after peeping through all nature,To find so whimsical a creature,A cloud[4] presented to my view,And straight this parallel I drew:Clouds turn with every wind about,They keep us in suspense and doubt,Yet, oft perverse, like womankind,Are seen to scud against the wind:And are not women just the same?For who can tell at what they aim?[5]Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under,When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder:So, when the alarum-bell is rung,Of Xanti's[7] everlasting tongue,The husband dreads its loudness moreThan lightning's flash, or thunder's roar.Clouds weep, as they do, without pain;And what are tears but women's rain?The clouds about the welkin roam:[8]And ladies never stay at home.The clouds build castles in the air,A thing peculiar to the fair:For all the schemes of their forecasting,[9]Are not more solid nor more lasting.A cloud is light by turns, and dark,Such is a lady with her spark;Now with a sudden pouting[10] gloomShe seems to darken all the room;Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,[11]And all is clear when she has smiled.In this they're wondrously alike,(I hope the simile will strike,)[12]Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them,Stay but a moment, you'll see through them.The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14]And frequently produce infection;So Celia, with small provocation,Blasts every neighbour's reputation.The clouds delight in gaudy show,(For they, like ladies, have their bow;)The gravest matron[15] will confess,That she herself is fond of dress.Observe the clouds in pomp array'd,What various colours are display'd;The pink, the rose, the violet's dye,In that great drawing-room the sky;How do these differ from our Graces,[16]In garden-silks, brocades, and laces?Are they not such another sight,When met upon a birth-day night?The clouds delight to change their fashion:(Dear ladies, be not in a passion!)Nor let this whim to you seem strange,Who every hour delight in change.In them and you alike are seenThe sullen symptoms of the spleen;The moment that your vapours rise,We see them dropping from your eyes.In evening fair you may beholdThe clouds are fringed with borrow'd gold;And this is many a lady's case,Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.[17]Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow;While brisk coquettes,[18] like rattling hail,Our ears on every side assail.Clouds, when they intercept our sight,Deprive us of celestial light:So when my Chloe I pursue,No heaven besides I have in view.Thus, on comparison,[19] you see,In every instance they agree;So like, so very much the same,That one may go by t'other's name.Let me proclaim[20] it then aloud,That every woman is a cloud.
[Footnote 1: The following foot-notes, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's,are replaced from the Irish edition:][Footnote 2: Most ladies, in reading, call this word asmile; but theyare to note, it consists of three syllables, si-mi-le. In English, alikeness.][Footnote 3: Not to hurt them.][Footnote 4: Not like a gun or pistol.][Footnote 5: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.][Footnote 6: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but acloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.][Footnote 7: Xanti, a nick-name for Xantippe, that scold of gloriousmemory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yetwith unexampled patience, he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall begthe ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her; and at thesame time I assure them, it is not to lessen those of the present age,who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, thatI know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but thatthey have not as great men to work upon.When a friend asked Socrates, how he could bear the scolding of hiswife Xantippe? he retorted, and asked him, how he could bear thegaggling of his geese? Ay, but my geese lay eggs for me, replied hisfriend; so doth my wife bear children, said Socrates.—Diog. Laert.Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue?he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear theimpertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad.—Plat. DeCapiend. ex host. utilit.Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in greatrage, went in to them, and overset the table. Euthymedus, rising in apassion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen dothe same thing at your house the other day, and did I show anyresentment?—Plat. de ira cohibenda.I could give many more instances of her termagancy, and his philosophy,if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunityto expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, Ideclare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviourto her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the greatesteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honourablestation of matrimony.][Footnote 8: Ramble.][Footnote 9: Not vomiting.][Footnote 10: Thrusting out the lip.][Footnote 11: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, whenbrewers put yeast or harm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived orcheated.][Footnote 12: Hit your fancy.][Footnote 13: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig, called Dumpty-Deary,invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.][Footnote 14: Reflection of the sun.][Footnote 15: Motherly woman.][Footnote 16: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces theduchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.][Footnote 17: Not Flanders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, Imean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were notable to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the lastbirth-day.—Vid. the shopkeepers' books.][Footnote 18: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on anumber of monkey-airs to catch men.][Footnote 19: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as tothink these comparisons are odious.][Footnote 20: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers andrapparees.]
Wherein the Author most audaciously presumes to cast an indignity upontheir highnesses the Clouds, by comparing them to a woman.Written by DERMOT O'NEPHELY, Chief Cape of Howth.[1]
BY DR. SWIFT ADVERTISEMENT FROM THE CLOUDSN.B. The following answer to that scurrilous libel against us, shouldhave been published long ago in our own justification: But it wasadvised, that, considering the high importance of the subject, it shouldbe deferred until the meeting of the General Assembly of the Nation.[Two passages within crotchets are added to this poem, from a copyfound amongst Swift's papers. It is indorsed, "Qufre, should it go."And a little lower, "More, but of no use."]
Presumptuous bard! how could you dareA woman with a cloud compare?Strange pride and insolence you showInferior mortals there below.And is our thunder in your earsSo frequent or so loud as theirs?Alas! our thunder soon goes out;And only makes you more devout.Then is not female clatter worse,That drives you not to pray, but curse?We hardly thunder thrice a-year;The bolt discharged, the sky grows clear;But every sublunary dowdy,The more she scolds, the more she's cloudy.[How useful were a woman's thunder,If she, like us, would burst asunder!Yet, though her stays hath often cursed her,And, whisp'ring, wish'd the devil burst her:For hourly thund'ring in his face,She ne'er was known to burst a lace.]Some critic may object, perhaps,That clouds are blamed for giving claps;But what, alas! are claps ethereal,Compared for mischief to venereal?Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches,Or from your noses dig out notches?We leave the body sweet and sound;We kill, 'tis true, but never wound.You know a cloudy sky bespeaksFair weather when the morning breaks;But women in a cloudy plight,Foretell a storm to last till night.A cloud in proper season poursHis blessings down in fruitful showers;But woman was by fate design'dTo pour down curses on mankind.When Sirius[2] o'er the welkin rages,Our kindly help his fire assuages;But woman is a cursed inflamer,No parish ducking-stool can tame her:To kindle strife, dame Nature taught her;Like fireworks, she can burn in water.For fickleness how durst you blame us,Who for our constancy are famous?You'll see a cloud in gentle weatherKeep the same face an hour together;While women, if it could be reckon'd,Change every feature every second.Observe our figure in a morning,Of foul or fair we give you warning;But can you guess from women's airOne minute, whether foul or fair?Go read in ancient books enroll'dWhat honours we possess'd of old.To disappoint Ixion's[3] rapeJove dress'd a cloud in Juno's shape;Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore,No goddess could have pleased him more;No difference could he find betweenHis cloud and Jove's imperial queen;His cloud produced a race of Centaurs,Famed for a thousand bold adventures;From us descendedab origine,By learned authors, callednubigenae;But say, what earthly nymph do you know,So beautiful to pass for Juno?Before Fneas durst aspireTo court her majesty of Tyre,His mother begg'd of us to dress him,That Dido might the more caress him:A coat we gave him, dyed in grain,A flaxen wig, and clouded cane,(The wig was powder'd round with sleet,Which fell in clouds beneath his feet)With which he made a tearing show;And Dido quickly smoked the beau.Among your females make inquiries,What nymph on earth so fair as Iris?With heavenly beauty so endow'd?And yet her father is a cloud.We dress'd her in a gold brocade,Befitting Juno's favourite maid.'Tis known that Socrates the wiseAdored us clouds as deities:To us he made his daily prayers,As Aristophanes declares;From Jupiter took all dominion,And died defending his opinion.By his authority 'tis plainYou worship other gods in vain;And from your own experience knowWe govern all things there below.You follow where we please to guide;O'er all your passions we preside,Can raise them up, or sink them down,As we think fit to smile or frown:And, just as we dispose your brain,Are witty, dull, rejoice, complain.Compare us then to female race!We, to whom all the gods give place!Who better challenge your allegianceBecause we dwell in higher regions.You find the gods in Homer dwellIn seas and streams, or low as Hell:Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp,No higher climb than mount Olymp.Who makes you think the clouds he pierces?He pierce the clouds! he kiss their a—es;While we, o'er Teneriffa placed,Are loftier by a mile at least:And, when Apollo struts on Pindus,We see him from our kitchen windows;Or, to Parnassus looking down,Can piss upon his laurel crown.Fate never form'd the gods to fly;In vehicles they mount the sky:When Jove would some fair nymph inveigle,He comes full gallop on his eagle;Though Venus be as light as air,She must have doves to draw her chair;Apollo stirs not out of door,Without his lacquer'd coach and four;And jealous Juno, ever snarling,Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin:But we can fly where'er we please,O'er cities, rivers, hills, and seas:From east to west the world we roam,And in all climates are at home;With care provide you as we goWith sunshine, rain, and hail, or snow.You, when it rains, like fools, believeJove pisses on you through a sieve:An idle tale, 'tis no such matter;We only dip a sponge in water,Then squeeze it close between our thumbs,And shake it well, and down it comes;As you shall to your sorrow know;We'll watch your steps where'er you go;And, since we find you walk a-foot,We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout.'Tis but by our peculiar grace,That Phoebus ever shows his face;For, when we please, we open wideOur curtains blue from side to side;And then how saucily he showsHis brazen face and fiery nose;And gives himself a haughty air,As if he made the weather fair!'Tis sung, wherever Celia treads,The violets ope their purple heads;The roses blow, the cowslip springs;'Tis sung; but we know better things.'Tis true, a woman on her mettleWill often piss upon a nettle;But though we own she makes it wetter,The nettle never thrives the better;While we, by soft prolific showers,Can every spring produce you flowers.Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning,Compare her radiant eyes to lightning;And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd,That lightning comes but from a cloud.But gods like us have too much senseAt poets' flights to take offence;Nor can hyperboles demean us;Each drab has been compared to Venus.We own your verses are melodious;But such comparisons are odious.[Observe the case—I state it thus:Though you compare your trull to us,But think how damnably you errWhen you compare us clouds to her;From whence you draw such bold conclusions;But poets love profuse allusions.And, if you now so little spare us,Who knows how soon you may compare usTo Chartres, Walpole, or a king,If once we let you have your swing.Such wicked insolence appearsOffensive to all pious ears.To flatter women by a metaphor!What profit could you hope to get of her?And, for her sake, turn base detractorAgainst your greatest benefactor.But we shall keep revenge in storeIf ever you provoke us more:For, since we know you walk a-foot,We'll soundly drench your frieze surtout;Or may we never thunder throw,Nor souse to death a birth-day beau.We own your verses are melodious;But such comparisons are odious.]
[Footnote 1: The highest point of Howth is called the Cape of Howth.—F.][Footnote 2: The Dogstar.—Hyginus, "Astronomica."][Footnote 3: Who murdered his father-in-law, and was taken into heavenand purified by Jove, but when, after he had begot the Centaurs from thecloud, he boasted of his imaginary success with Juno, Jupiter hurledhim into Tartarus, where he was bound to a perpetually revolving wheel."Volvitur Ixion: et se sequiturque fugitque." Ovid, "Metam.," iv, 460.Tibullus tells the tale in one distich, lib. I, iii:"Illic Junonem tentare Ixionis ausiVersantur celeri noxia membra rota."—W. E. B.]
To the Reverend Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D. written with a design to be spoken byher on his arrival at Glassnevin, Dr. Delany having complimented him witha house there. From the London and Dublin Magazine for June, 1735. Thelines are probably by Delany or Sheridan.Though the name of this place may make you to frown,Your Deanship is welcome toGlassnevintown;[1]A glass and no wine, to a man of your taste,Alas! is enough, sir, to break it in haste;Be that as it will, your presence can't failTo yield great delight in drinking our ale;Would you but vouchsafe a mug to partake,And as we can brew, believe we can bake.The life and the pleasure we now from you hope,The famed Violante can't show on the rope;Your genius and talents outdo even Pope.Then while, sir, you live at Glassnevin, and findThe benefit wish'd you, by friends who are kind;One night in the week, sir, your favour bestow,To drink with Delany and others your know:They constantly meet at Peg Radcliffe's together,Talk over the news of the town and the weather;Reflect on mishaps in church and in state,Digest many things as well as good meat;And club each alike that no one may treat.This if you will grant without coach or chair,You may, in a trice, cross the way and be there;For Peg is your neighbour, as well as Delany,A housewifely woman full pleasing to any.[Footnote 1: A pun onGlassnevin—Glass—ne, no, andvin,wine.—Scott.]
When to my house you come, dear Dean,Your humble friend to entertain,Through dirt and mire along the street,You find no scraper for your feet;At which you stamp and storm and swell,Which serves to clean your feet as well.By steps ascending to the hall,All torn to rags by boys and ball,With scatter'd fragments on the floor;A sad, uneasy parlour door,Besmear'd with chalk, and carved with knives,(A plague upon all careless wives,)Are the next sights you must expect,But do not think they are my neglect.Ah that these evils were the worst!The parlour still is farther curst.To enter there if you advance,If in you get, it is by chance.How oft by turns have you and ISaid thus—"Let me—no—let me try—This turn will open it, I'll engage"—You push me from it in a rage.Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling,Stamping, staring, fuming, grumbling,At length it opens—in we go—How glad are we to find it so!Conquests through pains and dangers please,Much more than those attain'd with ease.Are you disposed to take a seat;The instant that it feels your weight,Out goes its legs, and down you comeUpon your reverend deanship's bum.Betwixt two stools, 'tis often said,The sitter on the ground is laid;What praise then to my chairs is due,Where one performs the feat of two!Now to the fire, if such there be,At present nought but smoke we see."Come, stir it up!"—"Ho, Mr. Joker,How can I stir it without a poker?""The bellows take, their batter'd noseWill serve for poker, I suppose."Now you begin to rake—alackThe grate has tumbled from its back—The coals all on the hearth are laid—"Stay, sir—I'll run and call the maid;She'll make the fire again complete—She knows the humour of the grate.""Pox take your maid and you together—This is cold comfort in cold weather."Now all is right again—the blazeSuddenly raised as soon decays.Once more apply the bellows—"So—These bellows were not made to blow—Their leathern lungs are in decay,They can't even puff the smoke away.""And is your reverence vext at that,Get up, in God's name, take your hat;Hang them, say I, that have no shift;Come blow the fire, good Doctor Swift.If trifles such as these can tease you,Plague take those fools that strive to please you.Therefore no longer be a quarrel'rEither with me, sir, or my parlour.If you can relish ought of mine,A bit of meat, a glass of wine,You're welcome to it, and you shall fareAs well as dining with the mayor.""You saucy scab—you tell me so!Why, booby-face, I'd have you knowI'd rather see your things in order,Than dine in state with the recorder.For water I must keep a clutter,Or chide your wife for stinking butter;Or getting such a deal of meatAs if you'd half the town to eat.That wife of yours, the devil's in her,I've told her of this way of dinnerFive hundred times, but all in vain—Here comes a rump of beef again:O that that wife of yours would burst—Get out, and serve the boarders first.Pox take 'em all for me—I fretSo much, I shall not eat my meat—You know I'd rather have a slice.""I know, dear sir, you are not nice;You'll have your dinner in a minute,Here comes the plate and slices in it—Therefore no more, but take your place—Do you fall to, and I'll say grace."
While I the godlike men of old,In admiration wrapt, behold;Revered antiquity explore,And turn the long-lived volumes o'er;Where Cato, Plutarch, Flaccus, shineIn every excellence divine;I grieve that our degenerate daysProduce no mighty soul like these:Patriot, philosopher, and bard,Are names unknown, and seldom heard."Spare your reflection," Phoebus cries;"'Tis as ungrateful as unwise:Can you complain, this sacred day,That virtues or that arts decay?Behold, in Swift revived appears:The virtues of unnumber'd years;Behold in him, with new delight,The patriot, bard, and sage unite;And know, Ikrne in that nameShall rival Greece and Rome in fame."[Footnote 1: Written by Mrs. Pilkington, at the time when she wished tobe introduced to the Dean. The verses being presented to him by Dr.Delany, he kindly accepted the compliment.—Scott.]
No pedant Bentley proud, uncouth,Nor sweetening dedicator smooth,In one attempt has ever daredTo sap, or storm, this mighty bard,Nor Envy does, nor ignorance,Make on his works the least advance.Forthis, behold! still flies afarWhere'er his genius does appear;Nor hasthataught to do above,So meddles not with Swift and Jove.A faithful, universal fameIn glory spreads abroad his name;Pronounces Swift, with loudest breath,Immortal grown before his death.
To you, my true and faithful friend,These tributary lines I send,Which every year, thou best of deans,I'll pay as long as life remains;But did you know one half the painWhat work, what racking of the brain,It costs me for a single clause,How long I'm forced to think and pause;How long I dwell upon a proem,To introduce your birth-day poem,How many blotted lines; I know it,You'd have compassion for the poet.Now, to describe the way I think,I take in hand my pen and ink;I rub my forehead, scratch my head,Revolving all the rhymes I read.Each complimental thought sublime,Reduced by favourite Pope to rhyme,And those by you to Oxford writ,With true simplicity and wit.Yet after all I cannot findOne panegyric to my mind.Now I begin to fret and blot,Something I schemed, but quite forgot;My fancy turns a thousand ways,Through all the several forms of praise,What eulogy may best becomeThe greatest dean in Christendom.At last I've hit upon a thought——Sure this will do—— 'tis good for nought——This line I peevishly erase,And choose another in its place;Again I try, again commence,But cannot well express the sense;The line's too short to hold my meaning:I'm cramp'd, and cannot bring the Dean in.O for a rhyme to glorious birth!I've hit upon't——The rhyme is earth——But how to bring it in, or fit it,I know not, so I'm forced to quit it.Again I try—I'll sing the man—Ay do, says Phoebus, if you can;I wish with all my heart you would not;Were Horace now alive he could not:And will you venture to pursue,What none alive or dead could do?Pray see, did ever Pope or GayPresume to write on his birth-day;Though both were fav'rite bards of mine,The task they wisely both decline.With grief I felt his admonition,And much lamented my condition:Because I could not be contentWithout some grateful compliment,If not the poet, sure the friendMust something on your birth-day send.I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more:"Let every patriot him adore."Alack-a-day, there's nothing in't—Such stuff will never do in print.Pray, reader, ponder well the sequel;I hope this epigram will take well.In others, life is deem'd a vapour,In Swift it is a lasting taper,Whose blaze continually refines,The more it burns the more it shines.I read this epigram again,'Tis much too flat to fit the Dean.Then down I lay some scheme to dream onAssisted by some friendly demon.I slept, and dream'd that I should meetA birth-day poem in the street;So, after all my care and rout,You see, dear Dean, my dream is out.
The Dean must die—our idiots to maintain!Perish, ye idiots! and long live the Dean!
O Genius of Hibernia's state,Sublimely good, severely great,How doth this latest act excelAll you have done or wrote so well!Satire may be the child of spite,And fame might bid the Drapier write:But to relieve, and to endow,Creatures that know not whence or howArgues a soul both good and wise,Resembling Him who rules the skies,He to the thoughtful mind displaysImmortal skill ten thousand ways;And, to complete his glorious task,Gives what we have not sense to ask!