The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2

     [Footnote 1: Forge his own bad halfpence.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 2: He was burnt in effigy.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 3: The place of execution near Dublin.—Scott.]

     To the tune of "London is a fine town," &c.

     O Dublin is a fine town
       And a gallant city,
     For Wood's trash is tumbled down,
       Come listen to my ditty,
         O Dublin is a fine town, &c.

     In full assembly all did meet
       Of every corporation,
     From every lane and every street,
       To save the sinking nation.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The bankers would not let it pass
       For to be Wood's tellers,
     Instead of gold to count his brass,
       And fill their small-beer cellars.
         O Dublin, &c.

     And next to them, to take his coin
       The Gild would not submit,
     They all did go, and all did join,
       And so their names they writ.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The brewers met within their hall,
       And spoke in lofty strains,
     These halfpence shall not pass at all,
       They want so many grains.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The tailors came upon this pinch,
       And wish'd the dog in hell,
     Should we give this same Wood an inch,
       We know he'd take an ell.
         O Dublin, &c.

     But now the noble clothiers
       Of honour and renown,
     If they take Wood's halfpence
       They will be all cast down.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The shoemakers came on the next,
       And said they would much rather,
     Than be by Wood's copper vext,
       Take money stampt on leather.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The chandlers next in order came,
       And what they said was right,
     They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme
       Would soon be brought to light.
         O Dublin, &c.

     And that if Wood were now withstood,
       To his eternal scandal,
     That twenty of these halfpence should
       Not buy a farthing candle.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The butchers then, those men so brave,
       Spoke thus, and with a frown;
     Should Wood, that cunning scoundrel knave,
       Come here, we'd knock him down.
         O Dublin, &c.

     For any rogue that comes to truck
       And trick away our trade,
     Deserves not only to be stuck,
       But also to be flay'd.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The bakers in a ferment were,
       And wisely shook their head;
     Should these brass tokens once come here
       We'd all have lost our bread.
         O Dublin, &c.

     It set the very tinkers mad,
       The baseness of the metal,
     Because, they said, it was so bad
       It would not mend a kettle.
         O Dublin, &c.

     The carpenters and joiners stood
       Confounded in a maze,
     They seem'd to be all in a wood,
       And so they went their ways.
         O Dublin, &c.

     This coin how well could we employ it
       In raising of a statue,
     To those brave men that would destroy it,
       And then, old Wood, have at you.
         O Dublin, &c.

     God prosper long our tradesmen then,
       And so he will I hope,
     May they be still such honest men,
       When Wood has got a rope.
         O Dublin is a fine town, &c.

     The church I hate, and have good reason,
     For there my grandsire cut his weasand:
     He cut his weasand at the altar;
     I keep my gullet for the halter.

     In church your grandsire cut his throat;
       To do the job too long he tarried:
     He should have had my hearty vote
       To cut his throat before he married.

     THE JUDGE SPEAKS

     I'm not the grandson of that ass Quin;[1]
     Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin.
     My grandame had gallants by twenties,
     And bore my mother by a 'prentice.
     This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he
     In Christ-Church cut his throat for jealousy.
     And, since the alderman was mad you say,
     Then I must be so too, ex traduce.

     [Footnote 1: Alderman Quin, the judge's maternal grandfather, who cut his
     throat in church.—W. E. B.]

     What though the Dean hears not the knell
     Of the next church's passing bell;
     What though the thunder from a cloud,
     Or that from female tongue more loud,
     Alarm not; At the Drapier's ear,
     Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear.

     [Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 284.]

       THE INSCRIPTION

       Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves,
       Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves;
       Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand;
       Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land!
       Although the metaphor be worn and stale,
       Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail;
       Let me suppose thee for a ship a while,
       And thus address thee in the sailor style.

     Unhappy ship, thou art return'd in vain;
     New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.[1]
     Look to thyself, and be no more the sport
     Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port.
     Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide,
     Like faithful counsellors, on either side.
     Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood,
     The single pillar for his country's good,
     To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind,
     Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind;
     Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel
     The waves impetuous enter at your keel;
     Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke,
     When the strong cords of union once are broke.
     Tom by a sudden tempest is thy sail,
     Expanded to invite a milder gale.
       As when some writer in a public cause
     His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws,
     While all is calm, his arguments prevail;
     The people's voice expands his paper sail;
     Till power, discharging all her stormy bags,
     Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags,
     The nation scared, the author doom'd to death,
     Who fondly put his trust in poplar breath.
       A larger sacrifice in vain you vow;
     There's not a power above will help you now;
     A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects,
     In vain from injured Heaven relief expects.
       'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke
     That thy descent is from the British oak;
     Or, when your name and family you boast,
     From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast.
     Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine,
     Her sons descended from the British line;
     Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains
     On French records for twenty long campaigns;
     Yet, from an empress now a captive grown,
     She saved Britannia's rights, and lost her own.
       In ships decay'd no mariner confides,
     Lured by the gilded stern and painted sides:
     Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight
     In the gay trappings of a birth-day night:
     They on the gold brocades and satins raved,
     And quite forgot their country was enslaved.
     Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just,
     Nor change thy course with every sudden gust;
     Like supple patriots of the modern sort,
     Who turn with every gale that blows from court.
       Weary and sea-sick, when in thee confined,
     Now for thy safety cares distract my mind;
     As those who long have stood the storms of state
     Retire, yet still bemoan their country's fate.
     Beware, and when you hear the surges roar,
     Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry shore.
     They lie, alas! too easy to be found;
     For thee alone they lie the island round.

     [Footnote 1:
       "O navis, referent in mare te novi
       Fluctus! O quid agis?"]

     By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame,
     To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came;
     What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun,
     Had my own native Italy[1] o'errun.
     Ierne, to the world's remotest parts,
     Renown'd for valour, policy, and arts.
       Hither from Colchos,[2] with the fleecy ore,
     Jason arrived two thousand years before.
     Thee, happy island, Pallas call'd her own,
     When haughty Britain was a land unknown:[3]
     From thee, with pride, the Caledonians trace[4]
     The glorious founder of their kingly race:
     Thy martial sons, whom now they dare despise,
     Did once their land subdue and civilize;
     Their dress, their language, and the Scottish name,
     Confess the soil from whence the victors came.
     Well may they boast that ancient blood which runs
     Within their veins, who are thy younger sons.
     A conquest and a colony from thee,
     The mother-kingdom left her children free;
     From thee no mark of slavery they felt:
     Not so with thee thy base invaders dealt;
     Invited here to vengeful Morrough's aid,[5]
     Those whom they could not conquer they betray'd.
     Britain, by thee we fell, ungrateful isle!
     Not by thy valour, but superior guile:
     Britain, with shame, confess this land of mine
     First taught thee human knowledge and divine;
     My prelates and my students, sent from hence,
     Made your sons converts both to God and sense:
     Not like the pastors of thy ravenous breed,
     Who come to fleece the flocks, and not to feed.
       Wretched Ierne! with what grief I see
     The fatal changes time has made in thee!
     The Christian rites I introduced in vain:
     Lo! infidelity return'd again!
     Freedom and virtue in thy sons I found,
     Who now in vice and slavery are drown'd.
       By faith and prayer, this crosier in my hand,
     I drove the venom'd serpent from thy land:
     The shepherd in his bower might sleep or sing,[6]
     Nor dread the adder's tooth, nor scorpion's sting.
       With omens oft I strove to warn thy swains,
     Omens, the types of thy impending chains.
     I sent the magpie from the British soil,
     With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoil;
     To din thine ears with unharmonious clack,
     And haunt thy holy walls in white and black.
     What else are those thou seest in bishop's gear,
     Who crop the nurseries of learning here;
     Aspiring, greedy, full of senseless prate,
     Devour the church, and chatter to the state?
       As you grew more degenerate and base,
     I sent you millions of the croaking race;
     Emblems of insects vile, who spread their spawn
     Through all thy land, in armour, fur, and lawn;
     A nauseous brood, that fills your senate walls,
     And in the chambers of your viceroy crawls!
       See, where that new devouring vermin runs,
     Sent in my anger from the land of Huns!
     With harpy-claws it undermines the ground,
     And sudden spreads a numerous offspring round.
     Th' amphibious tyrant, with his ravenous band,
     Drains all thy lakes of fish, of fruits thy land.
       Where is the holy well that bore my name?
     Fled to the fountain back, from whence it came!
     Fair Freedom's emblem once, which smoothly flows,
     And blessings equally on all bestows.
     Here, from the neighbouring nursery of arts,[7]
     The students, drinking, raised their wit and parts;
     Here, for an age and more, improved their vein,
     Their Phoebus I, my spring their Hippocrene.
     Discouraged youths! now all their hopes must fail,
     Condemn'd to country cottages and ale;
     To foreign prelates make a slavish court,
     And by their sweat procure a mean support;
     Or, for the classics, read "The Attorney's Guide;"
     Collect excise, or wait upon the tide.
       Oh! had I been apostle to the Swiss,
     Or hardy Scot, or any land but this;
     Combined in arms, they had their foes defied,
     And kept their liberty, or bravely died;
     Thou still with tyrants in succession curst,
     The last invaders trampling on the first;
     Nor fondly hope for some reverse of fate,
     Virtue herself would now return too late.
     Not half thy course of misery is run,
     Thy greatest evils yet are scarce begun.
     Soon shall thy sons (the time is just at hand)
     Be all made captives in their native land;
     When for the use of no Hibernian born,
     Shall rise one blade of grass, one ear of corn;
     When shells and leather shall for money pass,
     Nor thy oppressing lords afford thee brass,[8]
     But all turn leasers to that mongrel breed,[9]
     Who, from thee sprung, yet on thy vitals feed;
     Who to yon ravenous isle thy treasures bear,
     And waste in luxury thy harvest there;
     For pride and ignorance a proverb grown,
     The jest of wits, and to the court unknown.
       I scorn thy spurious and degenerate line,
     And from this hour my patronage resign.

     [Footnote 1: Italy was not properly the native place of St. Patrick, but
     the place of his education, and whence he received his mission; and
     because he had his new birth there, by poetical license, and by scripture
     figure, our author calls that country his native Italy.—Dublin
     Edition.]

     [Footnote 2: Orpheus, or the ancient author of the Greek poem on the
     Argonautic expedition, whoever he be, says, that Jason, who manned the
     ship Argos at Thessaly, sailed to Ireland. And Adrianus Junius says the
     same thing, in these lines:
       "Ilia ego sum Graiis, olim glacialis Ierne
       Dicta, et Jasoniae puppis bene cognita nautis."—Dublin Edition.]

     [Footnote 3: Tacitus, comparing Ireland to Britain, says of the former:
     "Melius aditus portusque per commercia et negotiatores
     cogniti."—Agricola, xxiv.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Fordun, in his Scoti-Chronicon, Hector Boethius, Buchanan,
     and all the Scottish historians, agree that Fergus, son of Ferquard, King
     of Ireland, was the first King of Scotland, which country he
     subdued.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 5: In the reign of Henry II, 1172, Dermot Macmorrogh, King of
     Leinster, having been expelled from his kingdom by Roderick, King of
     Connaught, sought and obtained the assistance of the English for the
     recovery of his dominions. See Hume's "History of England," vol. i,
     p. 380.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6: There are no snakes, vipers, or toads in Ireland; and even
     frogs were not known here till about the year 1700. The magpies came a
     short time before; and the Norway rats since.—Dublin Edition. These
     plagues are all alluded to in this and the subsequent stanzas.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 7: The University of Dublin, called Trinity College, was
     founded by Queen Elizabeth in 1591.—Dublin Edition.]

     [Footnote 8: Wood's ruinous project against the people of Ireland was
     supported by Sir Robert Walpole in 1724.—Dublin Edition.]

     [Footnote 9: The absentees, who spent the income of their Irish estates,
     places, and pensions, in England.—Dublin Edition.]

     If there be truth in what you sing,
     Such godlike virtues in the king;
     A minister[1] so fill'd with zeal
     And wisdom for the commonweal;
     If he[2] who in the chair presides,
     So steadily the senate guides;
     If others, whom you make your theme,
     Are seconds in the glorious scheme;
     If every peer whom you commend,
     To worth and learning be a friend;
     If this be truth, as you attest,
     What land was ever half so blest!
     No falsehood now among the great,
     And tradesmen now no longer cheat:
     Now on the bench fair Justice shines;
     Her scale to neither side inclines:
     Now Pride and Cruelty are flown,
     And Mercy here exalts her throne;
     For such is good example's power,
     It does its office every hour,
     Where governors are good and wise;
     Or else the truest maxim lies:
     For so we find all ancient sages
     Decree, that, ad exemplum regis,
     Through all the realm his virtues run,
     Ripening and kindling like the sun.
     If this be true, then how much more
     When you have named at least a score
     Of courtiers, each in their degree,
     If possible, as good as he?
       Or take it in a different view.
     I ask (if what you say be true)
     If you affirm the present age
     Deserves your satire's keenest rage;
     If that same universal passion
     With every vice has fill'd the nation:
     If virtue dares not venture down
     A single step beneath the crown:
     If clergymen, to show their wit,
     Praise classics more than holy writ:
     If bankrupts, when they are undone,
     Into the senate-house can run,
     And sell their votes at such a rate,
     As will retrieve a lost estate:
     If law be such a partial whore,
     To spare the rich, and plague the poor:
     If these be of all crimes the worst,
     What land was ever half so curst?

     [Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Orford. Young's
     seventh satire is inscribed to him.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 2: Sir Spencer Compton, then Speaker, afterwards Earl of
     Wilmington, to whom the eighth satire is dedicated. See vol. i,
     219.—W. E. B.]

     Quoth the thief to the dog, let me into your door
       And I'll give you these delicate bits.
     Quoth the dog, I shall then be more villain than you're,
       And besides must be out of my wits.

     Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal,
       But my master each day gives me bread;
     You'll fly, when you get what you came here to steal,
       And I must be hang'd in your stead.

     The stockjobber thus from 'Change Alley goes down,
       And tips you the freeman a wink;
     Let me have but your vote to serve for the town,
       And here is a guinea to drink.

     Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent!
       Your offers of bribery cease:
     I'll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent,
       Or else I may forfeit my lease.

     From London they come, silly people to chouse,
       Their lands and their faces unknown:
     Who'd vote a rogue into the parliament-house,
       That would turn a man out of his own?

       M.
     I own, 'tis not my bread and butter,
     But prithee, Tim, why all this clutter?
     Why ever in these raging fits,
     Damning to hell the Jacobites?
     When if you search the kingdom round,
     There's hardly twenty to be found;
     No, not among the priests and friars——
       T. 'Twixt you and me, G—d d—n the liars!
       M. The Tories are gone every man over
     To our illustrious house of Hanover;
     From all their conduct this is plain;
     And then——
       T. G—d d—n the liars again!
     Did not an earl but lately vote,
     To bring in (I could cut his throat)
     Our whole accounts of public debts?
       M. Lord, how this frothy coxcomb frets! [Aside.       T. Did not an able statesman bishop
     This dangerous horrid motion dish up
     As Popish craft? did he not rail on't?
     Show fire and fagot in the tail on't?
     Proving the earl a grand offender;
     And in a plot for the Pretender;
     Whose fleet, 'tis all our friends' opinion,
     Was then embarking at Avignon?
       M. These wrangling jars of Whig and Tory,
     Are stale and worn as Troy-town story:
     The wrong, 'tis certain, you were both in,
     And now you find you fought for nothing.
     Your faction, when their game was new,
     Might want such noisy fools as you;
     But you, when all the show is past,
     Resolve to stand it out the last;
     Like Martin Marall,[2] gaping on,
     Not minding when the song is done.
     When all the bees are gone to settle,
     You clatter still your brazen kettle.
     The leaders whom you listed under,
     Have dropt their arms, and seized the plunder;
     And when the war is past, you come
     To rattle in their ears your drum:
     And as that hateful hideous Grecian,
     Thersites,[3] (he was your relation,)
     Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those
     With whom he served, than by his foes;
     So thou art grown the detestation
     Of all thy party through the nation:
     Thy peevish and perpetual teasing
     With plots, and Jacobites, and treason,
     Thy busy never-meaning face,
     Thy screw'd-up front, thy state grimace,
     Thy formal nods, important sneers,
     Thy whisperings foisted in all ears,
     (Which are, whatever you may think,
     But nonsense wrapt up in a stink,)
     Have made thy presence, in a true sense,
     To thy own side, so d—n'd a nuisance,
     That, when they have you in their eye,
     As if the devil drove, they fly.
       T. My good friend Mullinix, forbear;
     I vow to G—, you're too severe:
     If it could ever yet be known
     I took advice, except my own,
     It should be yours; but, d—n my blood!
     I must pursue the public good:
     The faction (is it not notorious?)
     [4]Keck at the memory of Glorious:[5]
     'Tis true; nor need I to be told,
     My quondam friends are grown so cold,
     That scarce a creature can be found
     To prance with me his statue round.
     The public safety, I foresee,
     Henceforth depends alone on me;
     And while this vital breath I blow,
     Or from above or from below,
     I'll sputter, swagger, curse, and rail,
     The Tories' terror, scourge, and flail.
       M. Tim, you mistake the matter quite;
     The Tories! you are their delight;
     And should you act a different part,
     Be grave and wise, 'twould break their heart.
     Why, Tim, you have a taste you know,
     And often see a puppet-show:
     Observe the audience is in pain,
     While Punch is hid behind the scene:
     But, when they hear his rusty voice,
     With what impatience they rejoice!
     And then they value not two straws,
     How Solomon decides the cause,
     Which the true mother, which pretender
     Nor listen to the witch of Endor.
     Should Faustus with the devil behind him
     Enter the stage, they never mind him:
     If Punch, to stir their fancy, shows
     In at the door his monstrous nose,
     Then sudden draws it back again;
     O what a pleasure mixt with pain!
     You every moment think an age,
     Till he appears upon the stage:
     And first his bum you see him clap
     Upon the Queen of Sheba's lap:
     The Duke of Lorraine drew his sword;
     Punch roaring ran, and running roar'd,
     Reviled all people in his jargon,
     And sold the King of Spain a bargain;
     St. George himself he plays the wag on,
     And mounts astride upon the dragon;
     He gets a thousand thumps and kicks,
     Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks;
     In every action thrusts his nose;
     The reason why, no mortal knows:
     In doleful scenes that break our heart,
     Punch comes like you, and lets a fart.
     There's not a puppet made of wood,
     But what would hang him if they could;
     While, teasing all, by all he's teased,
     How well are the spectators pleased!
     Who in the motion[6] have no share,
     But purely come to hear and stare;
     Have no concern for Sabra's sake,
     Which gets the better, saint or snake,
     Provided Punch (for there's the jest)
     Be soundly maul'd, and plague the rest.
       Thus, Tim, philosophers suppose,
     The world consists of puppet-shows;
     Where petulant conceited fellows
     Perform the part of Punchinelloes:
     So at this booth which we call Dublin,
     Tim, thou'rt the Punch to stir up trouble in:
     You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout,
     Put all your brother puppets out,
     Run on in a perpetual round,
     To tease, perplex, disturb, confound:
     Intrude with monkey grin and clatter
     To interrupt all serious matter;
     Are grown the nuisance of your clan,
     Who hate and scorn you to a man:
     But then the lookers-on, the Tories,
     You still divert with merry stories,
     They would consent that all the crew
     Were hang'd before they'd part with you.
       But tell me, Tim, upon the spot,
     By all this toil what hast thou got?
     If Tories must have all the sport,
     I fear you'll be disgraced at court.
       T. Got? D—n my blood! I frank my letters,
     Walk to my place before my betters;
     And, simple as I now stand here,
     Expect in time to be a peer—
     Got? D—n me! why I got my will!
     Ne'er hold my peace, and ne'er stand still:
     I fart with twenty ladies by;
     They call me beast; and what care I?
     I bravely call the Tories Jacks,
     And sons of whores—behind their backs.
     But could you bring me once to think,
     That when I strut, and stare, and stink,
     Revile and slander, fume and storm,
     Betray, make oath, impeach, inform,
     With such a constant loyal zeal
     To serve myself and commonweal,
     And fret the Tories' souls to death,
     I did but lose my precious breath;
     And, when I damn my soul to plague 'em,
     Am, as you tell me, but their May-game;
     Consume my vitals! they shall know,
     I am not to be treated so;
     I'd rather hang myself by half,
     Than give those rascals cause to laugh.
       But how, my friend, can I endure,
     Once so renown'd, to live obscure?
     No little boys and girls to cry,
     "There's nimble Tim a-passing by!"
     No more my dear delightful way tread
     Of keeping up a party hatred?
     Will none the Tory dogs pursue,
     When through the streets I cry halloo?
     Must all my d—n me's! bloods and wounds!
     Pass only now for empty sounds?
     Shall Tory rascals be elected,
     Although I swear them disaffected?
     And when I roar, "a plot, a plot!"
     Will our own party mind me not?
     So qualified to swear and lie,
     Will they not trust me for a spy?
       Dear Mullinix, your good advice
     I beg; you see the case is nice:
     O! were I equal in renown,
     Like thee to please this thankless town!
     Or blest with such engaging parts
     To win the truant schoolboys' hearts!
     Thy virtues meet their just reward,
     Attended by the sable guard.
     Charm'd by thy voice, the 'prentice drops
     The snow-ball destined at thy chops;
     Thy graceful steps, and colonel's air,
     Allure the cinder-picking fair.
       M. No more—in mark of true affection,
     I take thee under my protection;
     Your parts are good, 'tis not denied;
     I wish they had been well applied.
     But now observe my counsel, (viz.)     Adapt your habit to your phiz;
     You must no longer thus equip ye,
     As Horace says optat ephippia;     (There's Latin, too, that you may see
     How much improved by Dr.—)
     I have a coat at home, that you may try:
     'Tis just like this, which hangs by geometry;
     My hat has much the nicer air;
     Your block will fit it to a hair;
     That wig, I would not for the world
     Have it so formal, and so curl'd;
     'Twill be so oily and so sleek,
     When I have lain in it a week,
     You'll find it well prepared to take
     The figure of toupee and snake.
     Thus dress'd alike from top to toe,
     That which is which 'tis hard to know,
     When first in public we appear,
     I'll lead the van, keep you the rear:
     Be careful, as you walk behind;
     Use all the talents of your mind;
     Be studious well to imitate
     My portly motion, mien, and gait;
     Mark my address, and learn my style,
     When to look scornful, when to smile;
     Nor sputter out your oaths so fast,
     But keep your swearing to the last.
     Then at our leisure we'll be witty,
     And in the streets divert the city;
     The ladies from the windows gaping,
     The children all our motions aping.
     Your conversation to refine,
     I'll take you to some friends of mine,
     Choice spirits, who employ their parts
     To mend the world by useful arts;
     Some cleansing hollow tubes, to spy
     Direct the zenith of the sky;
     Some have the city in their care,
     From noxious steams to purge the air;
     Some teach us in these dangerous days
     How to walk upright in our ways;
     Some whose reforming hands engage
     To lash the lewdness of the age;
     Some for the public service go
     Perpetual envoys to and fro:
     Whose able heads support the weight
     Of twenty ministers of state.
     We scorn, for want of talk, to jabber
     Of parties o'er our bonnyclabber;
     Nor are we studious to inquire,
     Who votes for manors, who for hire:
     Our care is, to improve the mind
     With what concerns all human kind;
     The various scenes of mortal life;
     Who beats her husband, who his wife;
     Or how the bully at a stroke
     Knock'd down the boy, the lantern broke.
     One tells the rise of cheese and oatmeal;
     Another when he got a hot-meal;
     One gives advice in proverbs old,
     Instructs us how to tame a scold;
     One shows how bravely Audouin died,
     And at the gallows all denied;
     How by the almanack 'tis clear,
     That herrings will be cheap this year.
       T. Dear Mullinix, I now lament
     My precious time so long mispent,
     By nature meant for nobler ends:
     O, introduce me to your friends!
     For whom by birth I was design'd,
     Till politics debased my mind;
     I give myself entire to you;
     G—-d d—n the Whigs and Tories too!

     [Footnote 1: This is a severe satire upon Richard Tighe, Esq., whom the
     Dean regarded as the officious informer against Sheridan, in the matter
     of the choice of a text for the accession of George I, Swift had
     faithfully promised to revenge the cause of his friend, and has certainly
     fully redeemed his pledge, in this and the following pasquinades. Mad
     Mullinix, or Molyneux, was a sort of crazy beggar, a Tory politician in
     His madness, who haunted the streets of Dublin about this time. In a
     paper subscribed Dr. Anthony, apparently a mountebank of somewhat the
     same description, the doctor is made to vindicate his loyalty and regard
     for the present constitution in church and state, by declaring that he
     always acted contrary to the politics of Captain John Molyneux. The
     immediate occasion for publication is assigned in the Intelligencer, in
     which paper the dialogue first appeared.—Scott.

     "Having lately had an account, that a certain person of some distinction
     swore in a public coffee-house, that party should never die while he
     lived, (although it has been the endeavour of the best and wisest among
     us, to abolish the ridiculous appellations of Whig and Tory, and entirely
     to turn our thoughts to the good of our prince and constitution in church
     and state,) I hope those who are well-wishers to our country, will think
     my labour not ill-bestowed, in giving this gentleman's principles the
     proper embellishments which they deserve; and since Mad Mullinix is the
     only Tory now remaining, who dares own himself to be so, I hope I may not
     be censured by those of his party, for making him hold a dialogue with
     one of less consequence on the other side. I shall not venture so far as
     to give the Christian nick-name of the person chiefly concerned, lest I
     should give offence, for which reason I shall call him Timothy, and leave
     the rest to the conjecture of the world."—Intelligencer, No. viii. See
     an account of this paper in "Prose Works," ix, 311.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: "Sir Martin Marall," one of Dryden's most successful
     comedies. See Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 93.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: "Ilias," lib. ii, 211, seq.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: To reach at vomiting.]

     [Footnote 5: King William III.]

     [Footnote 6: Old word for a puppet-show.—Scott.]

     MY meaning will be best unravell'd,
     When I premise that Tim has travell'd.
     In Lucas's by chance there lay
     The Fables writ by Mr. Gay.
     Tim set the volume on a table,
     Read over here and there a fable:
     And found, as he the pages twirl'd,
     The monkey who had seen the world;
     (For Tonson had, to help the sale,
     Prefix'd a cut to every tale.)
     The monkey was completely drest,
     The beau in all his airs exprest.
     Tim, with surprise and pleasure staring,
     Ran to the glass, and then comparing
     His own sweet figure with the print,
     Distinguish'd every feature in't,
     The twist, the squeeze, the rump, the fidge in all,
     Just as they look'd in the original.
     "By —," says Tim, and let a f—t,
     "This graver understood his art.
     'Tis a true copy, I'll say that for't;
     I well remember when I sat for't.
     My very face, at first I knew it;
     Just in this dress the painter drew it."
     Tim, with his likeness deeply smitten,
     Would read what underneath was written,
     The merry tale, with moral grave;
     He now began to storm and rave:
     "The cursed villain! now I see
     This was a libel meant at me:
     These scribblers grow so bold of late
     Against us ministers of state!
     Such Jacobites as he deserve—
     D—n me! I say they ought to starve."

     Tim[2] and Dick had equal fame,
       And both had equal knowledge;
     Tom could write and spell his name,
       But Dick had seen the college.

     Dick a coxcomb, Tom was mad,
       And both alike diverting;
     Tom was held the merrier lad,
       But Dick the best at farting.

     Dick would cock his nose in scorn,
       But Tom was kind and loving;
     Tom a footboy bred and born,
       But Dick was from an oven.[3]

     Dick could neatly dance a jig,
       But Tom was best at borees;
     Tom would pray for every Whig,
       And Dick curse all the Tories.

     Dick would make a woful noise,
       And scold at an election;
     Tom huzza'd the blackguard boys,
       And held them in subjection.

     Tom could move with lordly grace,
       Dick nimbly skipt the gutter;
     Tom could talk with solemn face,
       But Dick could better sputter.

     Dick was come to high renown
       Since he commenced physician;
     Tom was held by all the town
       The deeper politician.

     Tom had the genteeler swing,
       His hat could nicely put on;
     Dick knew better how to swing
       His cane upon a button.

     Dick for repartee was fit,
       And Tom for deep discerning;
     Dick was thought the brighter wit,
       But Tom had better learning.

     Dick with zealous noes and ayes
       Could roar as loud as Stentor,
     In the house 'tis all he says;
       But Tom is eloquenter.

     [Footnote 1: This satire is a parody on a song then
     fashionable.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 2: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See post, "The Legion Club."]

     [Footnote 3: Tighe's ancestor was a contractor for furnishing the
     Parliament forces with bread during the civil wars. Hence Swift calls him
     Elsewhere Pistorides. See "Prose Works," vii, 233; and in "The Legion
     Club," Dick Fitzbaker.—W.E.B.]

     As when, from rooting in a bin,
     All powder'd o'er from tail to chin,
     A lively maggot sallies out,
     You know him by his hazel snout:
     So when the grandson of his grandsire
     Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir,
     With powder'd rump and back and side,
     You cannot blanch his tawny hide;
     For 'tis beyond the power of meal
     The gipsy visage to conceal;
     For as he shakes his wainscot chops,
     Down every mealy atom drops,
     And leaves the tartar phiz in show,
     Like a fresh t—d just dropp'd on snow.

       Foulest brute that stinks below,
         Why in this brown dost thou appear?
       For wouldst thou make a fouler show,
         Thou must go naked all the year.
     Fresh from the mud, a wallowing sow
     Would then be not so brown as thou.

       'Tis not the coat that looks so dun,
         His hide emits a foulness out;
       Not one jot better looks the sun
         Seen from behind a dirty clout.
     So t—ds within a glass enclose,
     The glass will seem as brown as those.

       Thou now one heap of foulness art,
         All outward and within is foul;
       Condensed filth in every part,
         Thy body's clothed like thy soul:
     Thy soul, which through thy hide of buff
     Scarce glimmers like a dying snuff.

       Old carted bawds such garments wear,
         When pelted all with dirt they shine;
       Such their exalted bodies are,
         As shrivell'd and as black as thine.
     If thou wert in a cart, I fear
     Thou wouldst be pelted worse than they're.

       Yet, when we see thee thus array'd,
         The neighbours think it is but just,
       That thou shouldst take an honest trade,
         And weekly carry out the dust.
     Of cleanly houses who will doubt,
     When Dick cries "Dust to carry out!"