[Footnote 1: Lady Acheson.][Footnote 2: Seeante, p.94W.—W. E. B.][Footnote 3: Added from the Dean's manuscript.][Footnote 4: "The Pantheon," containing the mythological systems of theGreeks and Romans, by Andrew Tooke, A.M., first published, 1713. Thelittle work became very popular. The copy I have is of the thirty-sixthedition, with plates, 1831. It is still in demand, as it deserves to be.Compare Leigh Hunt's remark on the illustrations to the "Pantheon," citedby Mr. Coleridge in his notes to "Don Juan," Canto I, St. xli, Byron'sWorks, edit. 1903.—W. E. B.]
DERMOT, SHEELAHA Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight;Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1]While each with stubbed knife removed the roots,That raised between the stones their daily shoots;As at their work they sate in counterview,With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew.Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain,The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.DERMOTMy love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt;My spud these nettles from the stones can part;No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.SHEELAHMy love for gentle Dermot faster grows,Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O!Love rooted out, again will never grow.DERMOTNo more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:(I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur's[2] sake)Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.SHEELAHThy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.DERMOTAt an old stubborn root I chanced to tug,When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug;A longer ha'p'orth [3] never did I see;This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me.SHEELAHIn at the pantry door, this morn I slipt,And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:Dennis[4] was out, and I got hither safe;And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half.DERMOTWhen you saw Tady at long bullets play,You sate and loused him all a sunshine day:How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,Or crack such lice as his between your nails?SHEELAHWhen you with Oonah stood behind a ditch,I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch;Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts?I almost wish'd this spud were in your guts.DERMOTIf Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide;Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side:But, if I ever touch her lips again,May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain!SHEELAHDermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could holdTen thousand lice, and every louse was gold;Him on my lap you never more shall see;Or may I lose my weeding knife—and thee!DERMOTO, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass,A pair of brogues [5] to bear thee dry to mass!But see, where Norah with the sowins [6] comes—Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums.
[Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson, whose great-grandfather was SirArchibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.][Footnote 2: Who was a great lover of Scotland.][Footnote 3: Halfpenny-worth.][Footnote 4: Sir Arthur's butler.][Footnote 5: Shoes with flat low heels.][Footnote 6: A sort of flummery.]
1729THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITIONThe author of the following poem is said to be Dr. J. S. D. S. P. D. whowrit it, as well as several other copies of verses of the like kind, byway of amusement, in the family of an honourable gentleman in the northof Ireland, where he spent a summer, about two or three years ago.[2] Acertain very great person,[3] then in that kingdom, having heard much ofthis poem, obtained a copy from the gentleman, or, as some say, the ladyin whose house it was written, from whence I know not by what accidentseveral other copies were transcribed full of errors. As I have a greatrespect for the supposed author, I have procured a true copy of the poem,the publication whereof can do him less injury than printing any of thoseincorrect ones which run about in manuscript, and would infallibly besoon in the press, if not thus prevented. Some expressions being peculiarto Ireland, I have prevailed on a gentleman of that kingdom to explainthem, and I have put the several explanations in their properplaces.—First Edition.
Thus spoke to my lady the knight[2] full of care,"Let me have your advice in a weighty affair.This Hamilton's bawn, while it sticks in my handI lose by the house what I get by the land;But how to dispose of it to the best bidder,For a barrack[6] or malt-house, we now must consider."First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house,Here I have computed the profit will fall t'us:There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain,I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain;A handsome addition for wine and good cheer,Three dishes a-day, and three hogsheads a-year;With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored;No little scrub joint shall come on my board;And you and the Dean no more shall combineTo stint me at night to one bottle of wine;Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloinA stone and a quarter of beef from my sir-loin.If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant;My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on't:In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent,Whatever they give me, I must be content,Or join with the court in every debate;And rather than that, I would lose my estate."Thus ended the knight; thus began his meek wife:"It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life.I'm grown a meremopus; no company comesBut a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull rums.[5]With parsons what lady can keep herself clean?I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean.But if you will give us a barrack, my dear,The captain I'm sure will always come here;I then shall not value his deanship a straw,For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe;Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert,Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert;That men of his coat should be minding their prayers,And not among ladies to give themselves airs."Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain;The knight his opinion resolved to maintain.But Hannah,[6] who listen'd to all that was past,And could not endure so vulgar a taste,As soon as her ladyship call'd to be dress'd,Cried, "Madam, why surely my master's possess'd,Sir Arthur the maltster! how fine it will sound!I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground.But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good,When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood.[7]And now my dream's out; for I was a-dream'dThat I saw a huge rat—O dear, how I scream'd!And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes;And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill news."Dear Madam, had you but the spirit to tease,You might have a barrack whenever you please:And, madam, I always believed you so stout,That for twenty denials you would not give out.If I had a husband like him, Ipurtest,Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest;And, rather than come in the same pair of sheetsWith such a cross man, I would lie in the streets:But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent,And worry him out, till he gives his consent.Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think,An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink:For if a new crotchet comes into my brain,I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain.I fancy already a barrack contrivedAt Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arrived;Of this to be sure, Sir Arthur has warning,And waits on the captain betimes the next morning."Now see, when they meet, how their honours behave;'Noble captain, your servant'—'Sir Arthur, your slave;You honour me much'—'The honour is mine.'—''Twas a sad rainy night'—'But the morning is fine.'—'Pray, how does my lady?'—'My wife's at your service.'—'I think I have seen her picture by Jervas.'—'Good-morrow, good captain'—'I'll wait on you down'—'You shan't stir a foot'—'You'll think me a clown.'—'For all the world, captain, not half an inch farther'—'You must be obey'd—Your servant, Sir Arthur!My humble respects to my lady unknown.'—'I hope you will use my house as your own.'""Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate,Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate.""Pray, madam, be quiet: what was it I said?You had like to have put it quite out of my head.Next day to be sure, the captain will come,At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum.Now, madam, observe how he marches in state:The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate:Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow.Tantara, tantara; while all the boys holla.See now comes the captain all daub'd with gold lace:O la! the sweet gentleman! look in his face;And see how he rides like a lord of the land,With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand;And his horse, the dearcreter, it prances and rears;With ribbons in knots at its tail and its ears:At last comes the troop, by word of command,Drawn up in our court; when the captain cries, STAND!Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen,For sure I had dizen'd you out like a queen.The captain, to show he is proud of the favour,Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver;(His beaver is cock'd: pray, madam, mark that,For a captain of horse never takes off his hat,Because he has never a hand that is idle,For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle;)Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air,As a compliment due to a lady so fair;(How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt!)Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the hilt.Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin:'Pray, captain, be pleased to alight and walk in.'The captain salutes you with congee profound,And your ladyship curtseys half way to the ground.'Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us;I'm sure he'll be proud of the honour you do us;And, captain, you'll do us the favour to stay,And take a short dinner here with us to-day:You're heartily welcome; but as for good cheer,You come in the very worst time of the year;If I had expected so worthy a guest—''Lord, madam! your ladyship sure is in jest;You banter me, madam; the kingdom must grant—''You officers, captain, are so complaisant!'"—"Hist, hussey, I think I hear somebody coming "—"No madam: 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming.To shorten my tale, (for I hate a long story,)The captain at dinner appears in his glory;The dean and the doctor[8] have humbled their pride,For the captain's entreated to sit by your side;And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first;The parsons for envy are ready to burst.The servants, amazed, are scarce ever ableTo keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table;And Molly and I have thrust in our nose,To peep at the captain in all his fineclo'es.Dear madam, be sure he's a fine spoken man,Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran;And, 'madam,' says he, 'if such dinners you give,You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live.I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose;But the devil's as welcome, wherever he goes:G—d d—n me! they bid us reform and repent,But, z—s! by their looks, they never keep Lent:Mister curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraidYou cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid:I wish she would lend you her pretty white handIn mending your cassock, and smoothing your band:(For the Dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny,That the captain supposed he was curate to Jinny.)'Whenever you see a cassock and gown,A hundred to one but it covers a clown.Observe how a parson comes into a room;G—d d—n me, he hobbles as bad as my groom;Ascholard, when just from his college broke loose,Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose;Your Noveds, and Bluturks, and Omurs,[9] and stuffBy G—, they don't signify this pinch of snuff.To give a young gentleman right education,The army's the only good school in the nation:My schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a fool,But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school;I never could take to my book for the blood o' me,And the puppy confess'd he expected no good o' me.He caught me one morning coquetting his wife,But he maul'd me, I ne'er was so maul'd in my life: [10]So I took to the road, and, what's very odd,The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G—.Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to say,But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day."Never since I was born did I hear so much wit,And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should split.So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the Dean,As who should say, 'Now, am I skinny[11] and lean?'But he durst not so much as once open his lips,And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips."Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk,Till she heard the Dean call, "Will your ladyship walk?"Her ladyship answers, "I'm just coming down:"Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown,Although it was plain in her heart she was glad,Cried, "Hussey, why sure the wench is gone mad!How could these chimeras get into your brains!—Come hither and take this old gown for your pains.But the Dean, if this secret should come to his ears,Will never have done with his gibes and his jeers:For your life, not a word of the matter I charge ye:Give me but a barrack, a fig for the clergy."
[Footnote 1: A bawn was a place near the house, enclosed with mud orstone walls, to keep the cattle from being stolen in the night, nowlittle used.—Dublin Edition.][Footnote 2: Sir Arthur Acheson, at whose seat this was written.][Footnote 3: John, Lord Carteret, then Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, sinceEarl of Granville, in right of his mother.][Footnote 4: The army in Ireland was lodged in strong buildings, calledbarracks. See "Verses on his own Death," and notes, vol. i,247.—W. E. B.][Footnote 5: A cant-word in Ireland for a poor country clergyman.][Footnote 6: My lady's waiting-woman.][Footnote 7: Two of Sir Arthur's managers.][Footnote 8: Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood.][Footnote 9: Ovids, Plutarchs, Homers.][Footnote 10: These four lines were added by Swift in his own copy of theMiscellanies, edit. 1732.—W. E. B.][Footnote 11: Nicknames for my lady, seeante, pp. 94, 95.—W. E. B.]
We give the world to understand,Our thriving Dean has purchased land;A purchase which will bring him clearAbove his rent four pounds a-year;Provided to improve the ground,He will but add two hundred pound;And from his endless hoarded store,To build a house, five hundred more.Sir Arthur, too, shall have his will,And call the mansion Drapier's-Hill;That, when a nation, long enslaved,Forgets by whom it once was saved;When none the Drapier's praise shall sing,His signs aloft no longer swing,His medals and his prints forgotten,And all his handkerchiefs [2] are rotten,His famous letters made waste paper,This hill may keep the name of Drapier;In spite of envy, flourish still,And Drapier's vie with Cooper's-Hill.
[Footnote 1: The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlach, which hetook of Sir Arthur Acheson, whose seat lay between that and Market-Hill;and intended to build a house upon it, but afterwards changed his mind.][Footnote 2: Medals were cast, many signs hung up, and handkerchiefsmade, with devices in honour of the Dean, under the name of M. B.Drapier. See "Verses on his own death," vol. i.—W. E. B.]
I will not build on yonder mount;And, should you call me to account,Consulting with myself, I findIt was no levity of mind.Whate'er I promised or intended,No fault of mine, the scheme is ended;Nor can you tax me as unsteady,I have a hundred causes ready;All risen since that flattering time,When Drapier's-Hill appear'd in rhyme.I am, as now too late I find,The greatest cully of mankind;The lowest boy in Martin's schoolMay turn and wind me like a fool.How could I form so wild a vision,To seek, in deserts, Fields Elysian?To live in fear, suspicion, variance,With thieves, fanatics, and barbarians?But here my lady will object;Your deanship ought to recollect,That, near the knight of Gosford[1] placed,Whom you allow a man of taste,Your intervals of time to spendWith so conversable a friend,It would not signify a pinWhatever climate you were in.'Tis true, but what advantage comesTo me from all a usurer's plums;Though I should see him twice a-day,And am his neighbour 'cross the way:If all my rhetoric must failTo strike him for a pot of ale?Thus, when the learned and the wiseConceal their talents from our eyes,And from deserving friends withholdTheir gifts, as misers do their gold;Their knowledge to themselves confinedIs the same avarice of mind;Nor makes their conversation better,Than if they never knew a letter.Such is the fate of Gosford's knight,Who keeps his wisdom out of sight;Whose uncommunicative heartWill scarce one precious word impart:Still rapt in speculations deep,His outward senses fast asleep;Who, while I talk, a song will hum,Or with his fingers beat the drum;Beyond the skies transports his mind,And leaves a lifeless corpse behind.But, as for me, who ne'er could clamber high,To understand Malebranche or Cambray;Who send my mind (as I believe) lessThan others do, on errands sleeveless;Can listen to a tale humdrum,And with attention read Tom Thumb;My spirits with my body progging,Both hand in hand together jogging;Sunk over head and ears in matter.Nor can of metaphysics smatter;Am more diverted with a quibbleThan dream of words intelligible;And think all notions too abstractedAre like the ravings of a crackt head;What intercourse of minds can beBetwixt the knight sublime and me,If when I talk, as talk I must,It is but prating to a bust?Where friendship is by Fate design'd,It forms a union in the mind:But here I differ from the knightIn every point, like black and white:For none can say that ever yetWe both in one opinion met:Not in philosophy, or ale;In state affairs, or planting kale;In rhetoric, or picking straws;In roasting larks, or making laws;In public schemes, or catching flies;In parliaments, or pudding pies.The neighbours wonder why the knightShould in a country life delight,Who not one pleasure entertainsTo cheer the solitary scenes:His guests are few, his visits rare;Nor uses time, nor time will spare;Nor rides, nor walks, nor hunts, nor fowls,Nor plays at cards, or dice, or bowls;But seated in an easy-chair,Despises exercise and air.His rural walks he ne'er adorns;Here poor Pomona sits on thorns:And there neglected Flora settlesHer bum upon a bed of nettles.Those thankless and officious caresI used to take in friends' affairs,From which I never could refrain,And have been often chid in vain;From these I am recover'd quite,At least in what regards the knight.Preserve his health, his store increase;May nothing interrupt his peace!But now let all his tenants roundFirst milk his cows, and after, pound;Let every cottager conspireTo cut his hedges down for fire;The naughty boys about the villageHis crabs and sloes may freely pillage;He still may keep a pack of knavesTo spoil his work, and work by halves;His meadows may be dug by swine,It shall be no concern of mine;For why should I continue stillTo serve a friend against his will?[Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson's great-grandfather was Sir Archibald, ofGosford, in Scotland.]
1730From distant regions Fortune sendsAn odd triumvirate of friends;Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,Where never yet a codling ripen'd:Hither the frantic goddess drawsThree sufferers in a ruin'd cause:By faction banish'd, here unite,A Dean,[1] a Spaniard,[2] and a Knight;[3]Unite, but on conditions cruel;The Dean and Spaniard find it too well,Condemn'd to live in service hard;On either side his honour's guard:The Dean to guard his honour's back,Must build a castle at Drumlack;[4]The Spaniard, sore against his will,Must raise a fort at Market-Hill.And thus the pair of humble gentryAt north and south are posted sentry;While in his lordly castle fixt,The knight triumphant reigns betwixt:And, what the wretches most resent,To be his slaves, must pay him rent;Attend him daily as their chief,Decant his wine, and carve his beef.O Fortune! 'tis a scandal for theeTo smile on those who are least worthy:Weigh but the merits of the three,His slaves have ten times more than he.Proud baronet of Nova Scotia!The Dean and Spaniard must reproach ye:Of their two fames the world enough rings:Where are thy services and sufferings?What if for nothing once you kiss'd,Against the grain, a monarch's fist?What if, among the courtly tribe,You lost a place and saved a bribe?And then in surly mood came here,To fifteen hundred pounds a-year,And fierce against the Whigs harangu'd?You never ventured to be hang'd.How dare you treat your betters thus?Are you to be compared with us?Come, Spaniard, let us from our farmsCall forth our cottagers to arms:Our forces let us both unite,Attack the foe at left and right;From Market-Hill's[5] exalted head,Full northward let your troops be led;While I from Drapier's-Mount descend,And to the south my squadrons bend.New-River Walk, with friendly shade,Shall keep my host in ambuscade;While you, from where the basin stands,Shall scale the rampart with your bands.Nor need we doubt the fort to win;I hold intelligence within.True, Lady Anne no danger fears,Brave as the Upton fan she wears;[6]Then, lest upon our first attackHer valiant arm should force us back,And we of all our hopes deprived;I have a stratagem contrived.By these embroider'd high-heel shoesShe shall be caught as in a noose:So well contriv'd her toes to pinch,She'll not have power to stir an inch:These gaudy shoes must Hannah [7] placeDirect before her lady's face;The shoes put on, our faithful portressAdmits us in, to storm the fortress,While tortured madam bound remains,Like Montezume,[8] in golden chains;Or like a cat with walnuts shod,Stumbling at every step she trod.Sly hunters thus, in Borneo's isle,To catch a monkey by a wile,The mimic animal amuse;They place before him gloves and shoes;Which, when the brute puts awkward on:All his agility is gone;In vain to frisk or climb he tries;The huntsmen seize the grinning prize.But let us on our first assaultSecure the larder and the vault;The valiant Dennis,[9] you must fix on,And I'll engage with Peggy Dixon:[10]Then, if we once can seize the keyAnd chest that keeps my lady's tea,They must surrender at discretion!And, soon as we have gain'd possession,We'll act as other conquerors do,Divide the realm between us two;Then, (let me see,) we'll make the knightOur clerk, for he can read and write.But must not think, I tell him that,Like Lorimer [11] to wear his hat;Yet, when we dine without a friend,We'll place him at the lower end.Madam, whose skill does all in dress lie,May serve to wait on Mrs. Leslie;But, lest it might not be so properThat her own maid should over-top her,To mortify the creature more,We'll take her heels five inches lower.For Hannah, when we have no need of her,'Twill be our interest to get rid of her;And when we execute our plot,'Tis best to hang her on the spot;As all your politicians wise,Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.][Footnote 2: Colonel Henry Leslie, who served and lived long inSpain.—Dublin Edition.][Footnote 3: Sir Arthur Acheson.][Footnote 4: The Irish name of a farm the Dean took of Sir ArthurAcheson,and was to build on, but changed his mind, and called it Drapier's Hill.See the poem so named, and "The Dean's Reasons for not building atDrapier's-Hill,"ante, p.107.—W. E. B.][Footnote 5: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's.][Footnote 6: A parody on the phrase, "As brave as his sword."—Scott.][Footnote 7: My lady's waiting-maid.][Footnote 8: Montezuma or Mutezuma, the last Emperor of Mexico and therichest, taken prisoner by Hernando Cortes, about 1511, who also obtainedpossession of the whole empire. Hakluyt's "Navigations," etc., vols.viii, ix.—W. E. B.][Footnote 9: The butler.][Footnote 10: The housekeeper.][Footnote 11: The agent.]
Robin to beggars with a curse,Throws the last shilling in his purse;And when the coachman comes for pay,The rogue must call another day.Grave Harry, when the poor are pressingGives them a penny and God's blessing;But always careful of the main,With twopence left, walks home in rain.Robin from noon to night will prate,Run out in tongue, as in estate;And, ere a twelvemonth and a day,Will not have one new thing to say.Much talking is not Harry's vice;He need not tell a story twice:And, if he always be so thrifty,His fund may last to five-and-fifty.It so fell out that cautious Harry,As soldiers use, for love must marry,And, with his dame, the ocean cross'd;(All for Love, or the World well Lost!) [2]Repairs a cabin gone to ruin,Just big enough to shelter two in;And in his house, if anybody come,Will make them welcome to his modicumWhere Goody Julia milks the cows,And boils potatoes for her spouse;Or darns his hose, or mends his breeches,While Harry's fencing up his ditches.Robin, who ne'er his mind could fix,To live without a coach-and-six,To patch his broken fortunes, foundA mistress worth five thousand pound;Swears he could get her in an hour,If gaffer Harry would endow her;And sell, to pacify his wrath,A birth-right for a mess of broth.Young Harry, as all Europe knows,Was long the quintessence of beaux;But, when espoused, he ran the fateThat must attend the married state;From gold brocade and shining armour,Was metamorphosed to a farmer;His grazier's coat with dirt besmear'd;Nor twice a-week will shave his beard.Old Robin, all his youth a sloven,At fifty-two, when he grew loving,Clad in a coat of paduasoy,A flaxen wig, and waistcoat gay,Powder'd from shoulder down to flank,In courtly style addresses Frank;Twice ten years older than his wife,Is doom'd to be a beau for life;Supplying those defects by dress,Which I must leave the world to guess.
[Footnote 1: A lively account of these two gentlemen occurs in Dr. King'sAnecdotes of his Own Times, p. 137et seq., who confirms thepeculiarities which Swift has enumerated in the text.—Scott.][Footnote 2: The title of Dryden's Play, founded on the story of Antonyand Cleopatra.—W. E. B.]
Resolved my gratitude to show,Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe,Too long I have my thanks delay'd;Your favours left too long unpaid;But now, in all our sex's name,My artless Muse shall sing your fame.Indulgent you to female kind,To all their weaker sides are blind:Nine more such champions as the DeanWould soon restore our ancient reign;How well to win the ladies' hearts,You celebrate their wit and parts!How have I felt my spirits raised,By you so oft, so highly praised!Transform'd by your convincing tongueTo witty, beautiful, and young,I hope to quit that awkward shame,Affected by each vulgar dame,To modesty a weak pretence;And soon grow pert on men of sense;To show my face with scornful air;Let others match it if they dare.Impatient to be out of debt,O, may I never once forgetThe bard who humbly deigns to chuseMe for the subject of his Muse!Behind my back, before my nose,He sounds my praise in verse and prose.My heart with emulation burns,To make you suitable returns;My gratitude the world shall know;And see, the printer's boy below;Ye hawkers all, your voices lift;"A Panegyric on Dean Swift!"And then, to mend the matter still,"By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!"[2]I thus begin: My grateful MuseSalutes the Dean in different views;Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor;Robert and Darby's[3] coadjutor;And, as you in commission sit,To rule the dairy next to Kit;[4]In each capacity I meanTo sing your praise. And first as Dean:Envy must own, you understand yourPrecedence, and support your grandeur:Nor of your rank will bate an ace,Except to give Dean Daniel[5] place.In you such dignity appears,So suited to your state and years!With ladies what a strict decorum!With what devotion you adore 'em!Treat me with so much complaisance,As fits a princess in romance!By your example and assistance,The fellows learn to know their distance.Sir Arthur, since you set the pattern,No longer calls me snipe and slattern,Nor dares he, though he were a duke,Offend me with the least rebuke.Proceed we to your preaching [5] next!How nice you split the hardest text!How your superior learning shinesAbove our neighbouring dull divines!At Beggar's Opera not so full pitIs seen as when you mount our pulpit.Consider now your conversation:Regardful of your age and station,You ne'er were known by passion stirr'dTo give the least offensive word:But still, whene'er you silence break,Watch every syllable you speak:Your style so clear, and so concise,We never ask to hear you twice.But then a parson so genteel,So nicely clad from head to heel;So fine a gown, a band so clean,As well become St. Patrick's Dean,Such reverential awe express,That cowboys know you by your dress!Then, if our neighbouring friends come hereHow proud are we when you appear,With such address and graceful port,As clearly shows you bred at court!Now raise your spirits, Mr. Dean,I lead you to a nobler scene.When to the vault you walk in state,In quality of butler's [6] mate;You next to Dennis [7] bear the sway:To you we often trust the key:Nor can he judge with all his artSo well, what bottle holds a quart:What pints may best for bottles passJust to give every man his glass:When proper to produce the best;And what may serve a common guest.With Dennis you did ne'er combine,Not you, to steal your master's wine,Except a bottle now and then,To welcome brother serving-men;But that is with a good design,To drink Sir Arthur's health and mine,Your master's honour to maintain:And get the like returns again.Your usher's[8] post must next be handled:How blest am I by such a man led!Under whose wise and careful guardshipI now despise fatigue and hardship,Familiar grown to dirt and wet,Though draggled round, I scorn to fret:From you my chamber damsels learnMy broken hose to patch and darn.Now as a jester I accost you;Which never yet one friend has lost you.You judge so nicely to a hair,How far to go, and when to spare;By long experience grown so wise,Of every taste to know the size;There's none so ignorant or weakTo take offence at what you speak.[9]Whene'er you joke, 'tis all a caseWhether with Dermot, or his grace;With Teague O'Murphy, or an earl;A duchess, or a kitchen girl.With such dexterity you fitTheir several talents with your wit,That Moll the chambermaid can smoke,And Gahagan[10] take every joke.I now become your humble suitorTo let me praise you as my tutor.[11]Poor I, a savage[12] bred and born,By you instructed every morn,Already have improved so well,That I have almost learnt to spell:The neighbours who come here to dine,Admire to hear me speak so fine.How enviously the ladies look,When they surprise me at my book!And sure as they're alive at night,As soon as gone will show their spight:Good lord! what can my lady mean,Conversing with that rusty Dean!She's grown so nice, and so penurious,[13]With Socrates and Epicurius!How could she sit the livelong day,Yet never ask us once to play?But I admire your patience most;That when I'm duller than a post,Nor can the plainest word pronounce,You neither fume, nor fret, nor flounce;Are so indulgent, and so mild,As if I were a darling child.So gentle is your whole proceeding,That I could spend my life in reading.You merit new employments daily:Our thatcher, ditcher, gardener, baily.And to a genius so extensiveNo work is grievous or offensive:Whether your fruitful fancy liesTo make for pigs convenient styes;Or ponder long with anxious thoughtTo banish rats that haunt our vault:Nor have you grumbled, reverend Dean,To keep our poultry sweet and clean;To sweep the mansion-house they dwell in,And cure the rank unsavoury smelling.Now enter as the dairy handmaid:Such charming butter [14] never man made.Let others with fanatic faceTalk of their milk for babes of grace;From tubs their snuffling nonsense utter;Thy milk shall make us tubs of butter.The bishop with his foot may burn it,[15]But with his hand the Dean can churn it.How are the servants overjoy'dTo see thy deanship thus employ'd!Instead of poring on a book,Providing butter for the cook!Three morning hours you toss and shakeThe bottle till your fingers ache;Hard is the toil, nor small the art,The butter from the whey to part:Behold a frothy substance rise;Be cautious or your bottle flies.The butter comes, our fears are ceased;And out you squeeze an ounce at least.Your reverence thus, with like success,(Nor is your skill or labour less,)When bent upon some smart lampoon,Will toss and turn your brain till noon;Which in its jumblings round the skull,Dilates and makes the vessel full:While nothing comes but froth at first,You think your giddy head will burst;But squeezing out four lines in rhyme,Are largely paid for all your time.But you have raised your generous mindTo works of more exalted kind.Palladio was not half so skill'd inThe grandeur or the art of building.Two temples of magnific sizeAttract the curious traveller's eyes,That might be envied by the Greeks;Raised up by you in twenty weeks:Here gentle goddess CloacineReceives all offerings at her shrine.In separate cells, the he's and she's,Here pay their vows on bended knees:For 'tis profane when sexes mingle,And every nymph must enter single;And when she feels an inward motion,Come fill'd with reverence and devotion.The bashful maid, to hide her blush,Shall creep no more behind a bush;Here unobserved she boldly goes,As who should say, to pluck a rose,[16]Ye, who frequent this hallow'd scene,Be not ungrateful to the Dean;But duly, ere you leave your station,Offer to him a pure libation,Or of his own or Smedley's lay,Or billet-doux, or lock of hay:And, O! may all who hither come,Return with unpolluted thumb!Yet, when your lofty domes I praiseI sigh to think of ancient days.Permit me then to raise my style,And sweetly moralize a-while.Thee, bounteous goddess Cloacine,To temples why do we confine?Forbid in open air to breathe,Why are thine altars fix'd beneath?When Saturn ruled the skies alone,(That golden age to gold unknown,)This earthly globe, to thee assign'd,Received the gifts of all mankind.Ten thousand altars smoking round,Were built to thee with offerings crown'd;And here thy daily votaries placedTheir sacrifice with zeal and haste:The margin of a purling streamSent up to thee a grateful steam;Though sometimes thou wert pleased to wink,If Naiads swept them from the brink:Or where appointing lovers rove,The shelter of a shady grove;Or offer'd in some flowery vale,Were wafted by a gentle gale,There many a flower abstersive grew,Thy favourite flowers of yellow hue;The crocus and the daffodil,The cowslip soft, and sweet jonquil.But when at last usurping JoveOld Saturn from his empire drove,Then gluttony, with greasy pawsHer napkin pinn'd up to her jaws,With watery chops, and wagging chin,Braced like a drum her oily skin;Wedged in a spacious elbow-chair,And on her plate a treble share,As if she ne'er could have enough,Taught harmless man to cram and stuff.She sent her priests in wooden shoesFrom haughty Gaul to make ragouts;Instead of wholesome bread and cheese,To dress their soups and fricassees;And, for our home-bred British cheer,Botargo, catsup, and caviare.This bloated harpy, sprung from hell,Confined thee, goddess, to a cell:Sprung from her womb that impious line,Contemners of thy rites divine.First, lolling Sloth, in woollen cap,Taking her after-dinner nap:Pale Dropsy, with a sallow face,Her belly burst, and slow her pace:And lordly Gout, wrapt up in fur,And wheezing Asthma, loth to stir:Voluptuous Ease, the child of wealth,Infecting thus our hearts by stealth.None seek thee now in open air,To thee no verdant altars rear;But, in their cells and vaults obscene,Present a sacrifice unclean;From whence unsavoury vapours rose,Offensive to thy nicer nose.Ah! who, in our degenerate days,As nature prompts, his offering pays?Here nature never difference madeBetween the sceptre and the spade.Ye great ones, why will ye disdainTo pay your tribute on the plain?Why will you place in lazy prideYour altars near your couches' side:When from the homeliest earthen wareAre sent up offerings more sincere,Than where the haughty duchess locksHer silver vase in cedar box?Yet some devotion still remainsAmong our harmless northern swains,Whose offerings, placed in golden ranks,Adorn our crystal rivers' banks;Nor seldom grace the flowery downs,With spiral tops and copple [27] crowns;Or gilding in a sunny mornThe humble branches of a thorn.So poets sing, with golden boughThe Trojan hero paid his vow.[28]Hither, by luckless error led,The crude consistence oft I tread;Here when my shoes are out of case,Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace;Here, by the sacred bramble tinged,My petticoat is doubly fringed.Be witness for me, nymph divine,I never robb'd thee with design;Nor will the zealous Hannah poutTo wash thy injured offering out.But stop, ambitious Muse, in time,Nor dwell on subjects too sublime.In vain on lofty heels I tread,Aspiring to exalt my head;With hoop expanded wide and light,In vain I 'tempt too high a flight.Me Phoebus [29] in a midnight dream [30]Accosting, said, "Go shake your cream [31]Be humbly-minded, know your post;Sweeten your tea, and watch your toast.Thee best befits a lowly style;Teach Dennis how to stir the guile;[32]With Peggy Dixon[33] thoughtful sit,Contriving for the pot and spit.Take down thy proudly swelling sails,And rub thy teeth and pare thy nails;At nicely carving show thy wit;But ne'er presume to eat a bit:Turn every way thy watchful eye,And every guest be sure to ply:Let never at your board be knownAn empty plate, except your own.Be these thy arts;[34] nor higher aimThan what befits a rural dame."But Cloacina, goddess bright,Sleek——claims her as his right;And Smedley,[35] flower of all divines,Shall sing the Dean in Smedley's lines."