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

     [Footnote 1: This is a parody on the tenth poem of Cowley's "Mistress,"
     entitled, "Clad all in White."—Scott.]

     Dull uniformity in fools
     I hate, who gape and sneer by rules;
     You, Mullinix, and slobbering C——
     Who every day and hour the same are
     That vulgar talent I despise
     Of pissing in the rabble's eyes.
     And when I listen to the noise
     Of idiots roaring to the boys;
     To better judgment still submitting,
     I own I see but little wit in:
     Such pastimes, when our taste is nice,
     Can please at most but once or twice.
       But then consider Dick, you'll find
     His genius of superior kind;
     He never muddles in the dirt,
     Nor scours the streets without a shirt;
     Though Dick, I dare presume to say,
     Could do such feats as well as they.
     Dick I could venture everywhere,
     Let the boys pelt him if they dare,
     He'd have them tried at the assizes
     For priests and jesuits in disguises;
     Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender,
     And listing troops for the Pretender.
       But Dick can f—t, and dance, and frisk,
     No other monkey half so brisk;
     Now has the speaker by his ears,
     Next moment in the House of Peers;
     Now scolding at my Lady Eustace,
     Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.[1]
     Presto! begone; with t'other hop
     He's powdering in a barber's shop;
     Now at the antichamber thrusting
     His nose, to get the circle just in;
     And damns his blood that in the rear
     He sees a single Tory there:
     Then woe be to my lord-lieutenant,
     Again he'll tell him, and again on't[2]

     [Footnote 1: "Dick Tighe and his wife lodged over against us; and he has
     been seen, out of our upper windows, beating her two or three times; ...
     I am told she is the most urging, provoking devil that ever was born; and
     he a hot whiffling puppy, very apt to resent."—Journal to Stella, "Prose
     Works," ii, 229.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Farquhar, who inscribed his play of the "Inconstant" to
     Richard Tighe, has painted him in very different colours from those of
     the Dean's satirical pencil. Yet there may be discerned, even in that
     dedication, the oulines of a light mercurial character, capable of being
     represented as a coxcomb or fine gentleman, as should suit the purpose of
     the writer who was disposed to immortalize him.—Scott.]

     Tom.
     Say, Robin, what can Traulus[2] mean
     By bellowing thus against the Dean?
     Why does he call him paltry scribbler,
     Papist, and Jacobite, and libeller,
     Yet cannot prove a single fact?

     Robin. Forgive him, Tom: his head is crackt.

     T. What mischief can the Dean have done him,
     That Traulus calls for vengeance on him?
     Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it
     In vain against the people's favourite?
     Revile that nation-saving paper,
     Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier?

     R. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain;
     Party and spleen have turn'd his brain.

     T. Such friendship never man profess'd,
     The Dean was never so caress'd;
     For Traulus long his rancour nursed,
     Till, God knows why, at last it burst.
     That clumsy outside of a porter,
     How could it thus conceal a courtier?

     R. I own, appearances are bad;
     Yet still insist the man is mad.

     T. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows
     How to distinguish friends from foes;
     And though perhaps among the rout
     He wildly flings his filth about,
     He still has gratitude and sap'ence,
     To spare the folks that give him ha'pence;
     Nor in their eyes at random pisses,
     But turns aside, like mad Ulysses;
     While Traulus all his ordure scatters
     To foul the man he chiefly flatters.
     Whence comes these inconsistent fits?

     R. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits.

     T, Agreed: and yet, when Towzer snaps
     At people's heels, with frothy chaps,
     Hangs down his head, and drops his tail,
     To say he's mad will not avail;
     The neighbours all cry, "Shoot him dead,
     Hang, drown, or knock him on the head."
     So Traulus, when he first harangued,
     I wonder why he was not hang'd;
     For of the two, without dispute,
     Towzer's the less offensive brute.

     R, Tom, you mistake the matter quite;
     Your barking curs will seldom bite
     And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter,
     He barks as fast as he can utter.
     He prates in spite of all impediment,
     While none believes that what he said he meant;
     Puts in his finger and his thumb
     To grope for words, and out they come.
     He calls you rogue; there's nothing in it,
     He fawns upon you in a minute:
     "Begs leave to rail, but, d—n his blood!
     He only meant it for your good:
     His friendship was exactly timed,
     He shot before your foes were primed:
     By this contrivance, Mr. Dean,
     By G—! I'll bring you off as clean—"[3]
     Then let him use you e'er so rough,
     "'Twas all for love," and that's enough.
     But, though he sputter through a session,
     It never makes the least impression:
     Whate'er he speaks for madness goes,
     With no effect on friends or foes.

     T. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack
     Can set the mastiff on your back.
     I own, his madness is a jest,
     If that were all. But he's possest
     Incarnate with a thousand imps,
     To work whose ends his madness pimps;
     Who o'er each string and wire preside,
     Fill every pipe, each motion guide;
     Directing every vice we find
     In Scripture to the devil assign'd;
     Sent from the dark infernal region,
     In him they lodge, and make him legion.
     Of brethren he's a false accuser;
     A slanderer, traitor, and seducer;
     A fawning, base, trepanning liar;
     The marks peculiar of his sire.
     Or, grant him but a drone at best;
     A drone can raise a hornet's nest.
     The Dean had felt their stings before;
     And must their malice ne'er give o'er?
     Still swarm and buzz about his nose?
     But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes.
     A patriot is a dangerous post,
     When wanted by his country most;
     Perversely comes in evil times,
     Where virtues are imputed crimes.
     His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant;
     A traitor to the vices regnant.
       What spirit, since the world began,
     Could always bear to strive with man?
     Which God pronounced he never would,
     And soon convinced them by a flood.
     Yet still the Dean on freedom raves;
     His spirit always strives with slaves.
     'Tis time at last to spare his ink,
     And let them rot, or hang, or sink.

     [Footnote 1: Son of Dr. Charles Leslie.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 4: Joshua, Lord Allen. For particulars of the satire upon this
     individual, see "Advertisement by Swift in his defence against Joshua,
     Lord Allen," "Prose Works," vii, 168-175, and notes.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: This is the usual excuse of Traulus, when he abuses you to
     others without provocation.—Swift.]

     TRAULUS, of amphibious breed,
     Motley fruit of mongrel seed;
     By the dam from lordlings sprung.
     By the sire exhaled from dung:
     Think on every vice in both,
     Look on him, and see their growth.
       View him on the mother's side,[2]
     Fill'd with falsehood, spleen, and pride;
     Positive and overbearing,
     Changing still, and still adhering;
     Spiteful, peevish, rude, untoward,
     Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward;
     When his friends he most is hard on,
     Cringing comes to beg their pardon;
     Reputation ever tearing,
     Ever dearest friendship swearing;
     Judgment weak, and passion strong,
     Always various, always wrong;
     Provocation never waits,
     Where he loves, or where he hates;
     Talks whate'er comes in his head;
     Wishes it were all unsaid.
       Let me now the vices trace,
     From the father's scoundrel race.
     Who could give the looby such airs?
     Were they masons, were they butchers?
     Herald, lend the Muse an answer
     From his atavus and grandsire:[1]
     This was dexterous at his trowel,
     That was bred to kill a cow well:
     Hence the greasy clumsy mien
     In his dress and figure seen;
     Hence the mean and sordid soul,
     Like his body, rank and foul;
     Hence that wild suspicious peep,
     Like a rogue that steals a sheep;
     Hence he learnt the butcher's guile,
     How to cut your throat and smile;
     Like a butcher, doom'd for life
     In his mouth to wear a knife:
     Hence he draws his daily food
     From his tenants' vital blood.
       Lastly, let his gifts be tried,
     Borrow'd from the mason's side:
     Some perhaps may think him able
     In the state to build a Babel;
     Could we place him in a station
     To destroy the old foundation.
     True indeed I should be gladder
     Could he learn to mount a ladder:
     May he at his latter end
     Mount alive and dead descend!
     In him tell me which prevail,
     Female vices most, or male?
     What produced him, can you tell?
     Human race, or imps of Hell?

     [Footnote 1: The mother of Lord Alen was sister to Robert, Earl of
     Kildare.—Scott]

     [Footnote 2: John, Lord Allen, father of Joshua, the Traulus of the
     satire, was son of Sir Joshua Allen, Lord Mayor of Dublin in 1673, and
     grandson of John Allen, an architect in great esteem in the reign of
     Queen Elizabeth.Scott]

     One time a mighty plague did pester
     All beasts domestic and sylvester,
     The doctors all in concert join'd,
     To see if they the cause could find;
     And tried a world of remedies,
     But none could conquer the disease.
     The lion in this consternation.
     Sends out his royal proclamation,
     To all his loving subjects greeting,
     Appointing them a solemn meeting:
     And when they're gather'd round his den,
     He spoke,—My lords and gentlemen,
     I hope you're met full of the sense
     Of this devouring pestilence;
     For sure such heavy punishment,
     On common crimes is rarely sent;
     It must be some important cause,
     Some great infraction of the laws.
     Then let us search our consciences,
     And every one his faults confess:
     Let's judge from biggest to the least
     That he that is the foulest beast,
     May for a sacrifice be given
     To stop the wrath of angry Heaven.
     And since no one is free from sin,
     I with myself will first begin.
     I have done many a thing that's ill
     From a propensity to kill,
     Slain many an ox, and, what is worse,
     Have murder'd many a gallant horse;
     Robb'd woods and fens, and, like a glutton,
     Devour'd whole flocks of lamb and mutton;
     Nay sometimes, for I dare not lie,
     The shepherd went for company.—
     He had gone on, but Chancellor Fox
     Stands up——What signifies an ox?
     What signifies a horse? Such things
     Are honour'd when made sport for kings.
     Then for the sheep, those foolish cattle,
     Not fit for courage, or for battle;
     And being tolerable meat,
     They're good for nothing but to eat.
     The shepherd too, young enemy,
     Deserves no better destiny.
     Sir, sir, your conscience is too nice,
     Hunting's a princely exercise:
     And those being all your subjects born,
     Just when you please are to be torn.
     And, sir, if this will not content ye,
     We'll vote it nemine contradicente.
     Thus after him they all confess,
     They had been rogues, some more some less;
     And yet by little slight excuses,
     They all get clear of great abuses.
     The Bear, the Tiger, beasts of flight,
     And all that could but scratch and bite,
     Nay e'en the Cat, of wicked nature,
     That kills in sport her fellow-creature,
     Went scot-free; but his gravity,
     An ass of stupid memory,
     Confess'd, as he went to a fair,
     His back half broke with wooden-ware,
     Chancing unluckily to pass
     By a church-yard full of good grass,
     Finding they'd open left the gate,
     He ventured in, stoop'd down and ate
     Hold, says Judge Wolf, such are the crimes
     Have brought upon us these sad times,
     'Twas sacrilege, and this vile ass
     Shall die for eating holy grass.

     Old Latimer preaching did fairly describe
     A bishop, who ruled all the rest of his tribe;
     And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell?
     Why truly 'tis Satan, Archbishop of Hell.
     And He was a primate, and He wore a mitre,
     Surrounded with jewels of sulphur and nitre.
     How nearly this bishop our bishops resembles!
     But he has the odds, who believes and who trembles,
     Could you see his grim grace, for a pound to a penny,
     You'd swear it must be the baboon of Kilkenny:[2]
     Poor Satan will think the comparison odious,
     I wish I could find him out one more commodious;
     But, this I am sure, the most reverend old dragon
     Has got on the bench many bishops suffragan;
     And all men believe he resides there incog,
     To give them by turns an invisible jog.
     Our bishops, puft up with wealth and with pride,
     To hell on the backs of the clergy would ride.
     They mounted and labour'd with whip and with spur
     In vain—for the devil a parson would stir.
     So the commons unhors'd them; and this was their doom,
     On their crosiers to ride like a witch on a broom.
     Though they gallop'd so fast, on the road you may find 'em,
     And have left us but three out of twenty behind 'em.
     Lord Bolton's good grace, Lord Carr and Lord Howard,[3]
     In spite of the devil would still be untoward:
     They came of good kindred, and could not endure
     Their former companions should beg at their door.
       When Christ was betray'd to Pilate the pretor
     Of a dozen apostles but one proved a traitor:
     One traitor alone, and faithful eleven;
     But we can afford you six traitors in seven.
       What a clutter with clippings, dividings, and cleavings!
     And the clergy forsooth must take up with their leavings;
     If making divisions was all their intent,
     They've done it, we thank them, but not as they meant;
     And so may such bishops for ever divide,
     That no honest heathen would be on their side.
     How should we rejoice, if, like Judas the first,
     Those splitters of parsons in sunder should burst!
       Now hear an allusion:—A mitre, you know,
     Is divided above, but united below.
     If this you consider our emblem is right;
     The bishops divide, but the clergy unite.
     Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread
     That the mitre would never stick fast on their head:
     And yet they have learnt the chief art of a sovereign,
     As Machiavel taught them, "divide and ye govern."
     But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said
     That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head;
     I'll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see't)
     If your stockings were off, you could show cloven feet.
       But hold, cry the bishops, and give us fair play;
     Before you condemn us, hear what we can say.
     What truer affections could ever be shown,
     Than saving your souls by damning our own?
     And have we not practised all methods to gain you;
     With the tithe of the tithe of the tithe to maintain you;
     Provided a fund for building you spittals!
     You are only to live four years without victuals.
     Content, my good lords; but let us change hands;
     First take you our tithes, and give us your lands.
     So God bless the Church and three of our mitres;
     And God bless the Commons, for biting the biters.

     [Footnote 1: Occasioned by two bills; a Bill of Residence to compel the
     clergy to reside on their livings, and a Bill of Division, to divide the
     church livings. See Considerations upon two Bills, "Prose Works," iii,
     and Swift's letter to the Bishop of Clogher, July, 1733, in which he
     describes "those two abominable bills for enslaving and beggaring the
     clergy." Edit. Scott, xviii, p. 147. The bills were passed by the House
     of Lords, but rejected by the Commons. See note, next page.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Ossory, who promoted the Bills. See
     "Prose Works," xii, p.26.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Theophilus Bolton, Archbishop of Cashel from 1729 to 1744;
     Charles Carr, Bishop of Killaloe from 1716 to 1739; and Robert Howard,
     Bishop of Elphin from 1729 to 1740, who voted against the bills on a
     division.—W. E. B.]

     PATRON of the tuneful throng,
       O! too nice, and too severe!
     Think not, that my country song
       Shall displease thy honest ear.
     Chosen strains I proudly bring,
       Which the Muses' sacred choir,
     When they gods and heroes sing,
       Dictate to th' harmonious lyre.
     Ancient Homer, princely bard!
       Just precedence still maintains,
     With sacred rapture still are heard
       Theban Pindar's lofty strains.
     Still the old triumphant song,
       Which, when hated tyrants fell,
     Great Alcfus boldly sung,
       Warns, instructs, and pleases well.
     Nor has Time's all-darkening shade
       In obscure oblivion press'd
     What Anacreon laugh'd and play'd;
       Gay Anacreon, drunken priest!
     Gentle Sappho, love-sick muse,
       Warms the heart with amorous fire;
     Still her tenderest notes infuse
       Melting rapture, soft desire.
     Beauteous Helen, young and gay,
       By a painted fopling won,
     Went not first, fair nymph, astray,
       Fondly pleased to be undone.
     Nor young Teucer's slaughtering bow,
       Nor bold Hector's dreadful sword,
     Alone the terrors of the foe,
       Sow'd the field with hostile blood.
     Many valiant chiefs of old
       Greatly lived and died before
     Agamemnon, Grecian bold,
       Waged the ten years' famous war.
     But their names, unsung, unwept,
       Unrecorded, lost and gone,
     Long in endless night have slept,
       And shall now no more be known.
     Virtue, which the poet's care
       Has not well consign'd to fame,
     Lies, as in the sepulchre
       Some old king, without a name.
     But, O Humphry, great and free,
       While my tuneful songs are read,
     Old forgetful Time on thee
       Dark oblivion ne'er shall spread.
     When the deep cut notes shall fade
       On the mouldering Parian stone,
     On the brass no more be read
       The perishing inscription;
     Forgotten all the enemies,
       Envious G——n's cursed spite,
     And P——l's derogating lies,
       Lost and sunk in Stygian night;
     Still thy labour and thy care,
       What for Dublin thou hast done,
     In full lustre shall appear,
       And outshine th' unclouded sun.
     Large thy mind, and not untried,
       For Hibernia now doth stand,
     Through the calm, or raging tide,
       Safe conducts the ship to land.
     Falsely we call the rich man great,
       He is only so that knows
     His plentiful or small estate
       Wisely to enjoy and use.
     He in wealth or poverty,
       Fortune's power alike defies;
     And falsehood and dishonesty
       More than death abhors and flies:
     Flies from death!—no, meets it brave,
       When the suffering so severe
     May from dreadful bondage save
       Clients, friends, or country dear.
     This the sovereign man, complete;
       Hero; patriot; glorious; free;
     Rich and wise; and good and great;
       Generous Humphry, thou art he.

     [Footnote 1: Elected M. P. for Dublin, by the interest of Swift, in the
     name of the Drapier. See Advice to the Freemen of the City of Dublin,
     etc., "Prose Works," vii, 310.—W. E. B.]

     SIR ROBERT,[2] wearied by Will Pulteney's teasings,
     Who interrupted him in all his leasings,
     Resolved that Will and he should meet no more,
     Full in his face Bob shuts the council door;
     Nor lets him sit as justice on the bench,
     To punish thieves, or lash a suburb wench.
     Yet still St. Stephen's chapel open lies
     For Will to enter—What shall I advise?
     Ev'n quit the house, for thou too long hast sat in't,
     Produce at last thy dormant ducal patent;
     There near thy master's throne in shelter placed,
     Let Will, unheard by thee, his thunder waste;
     Yet still I fear your work is done but half,
     For while he keeps his pen you are not safe.
       Hear an old fable, and a dull one too;
     It bears a moral when applied to you.

       A hare had long escaped pursuing hounds,
     By often shifting into distant grounds;
     Till, finding all his artifices vain,
     To save his life he leap'd into the main.
     But there, alas! he could no safety find,
     A pack of dogfish had him in the wind.
     He scours away; and, to avoid the foe,
     Descends for shelter to the shades below:
     There Cerberus lay watching in his den,
     (He had not seen a hare the lord knows when.)
     Out bounced the mastiff of the triple head;
     Away the hare with double swiftness fled;
     Hunted from earth, and sea, and hell, he flies
     (Fear lent him wings) for safety to the skies.
     How was the fearful animal distrest!
     Behold a foe more fierce than all the rest:
     Sirius, the swiftest of the heavenly pack,
     Fail'd but an inch to seize him by the back.
     He fled to earth, but first it cost him dear;
     He left his scut behind, and half an ear.
       Thus was the hare pursued, though free from guilt;
     Thus, Bob, shall thou be maul'd, fly where thou wilt.
     Then, honest Robin, of thy corpse beware;
     Thou art not half so nimble as a hare:
     Too ponderous is thy bulk to mount the sky;
     Nor can you go to Hell before you die.
     So keen thy hunters, and thy scent so strong,
     Thy turns and doublings cannot save thee long.[3]

     [Footnote 1: Right Honourable William Pulteney, afterwards Earl of Bath.]

     [Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, at that time Prime Minister, afterwards
     first Earl of Orford.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: This hunting ended in the promotion of Will and Bob. Bob was
     no longer first minister, but Earl of Orford; and Will was no longer his
     opponent, but Earl of Bath.—H.]

     AN inundation, says the fable,
     Overflow'd a farmer's barn and stable;
     Whole ricks of hay and stacks of corn
     Were down the sudden current borne;
     While things of heterogeneous kind
     Together float with tide and wind.
     The generous wheat forgot its pride,
     And sail'd with litter side by side;
     Uniting all, to show their amity,
     As in a general calamity.
     A ball of new-dropp'd horse's dung,
     Mingling with apples in the throng,
     Said to the pippin plump and prim,
     "See, brother, how we apples swim."
       Thus Lamb, renown'd for cutting corns,
     An offer'd fee from Radcliff scorns,
     "Not for the world—we doctors, brother,
     Must take no fees of one another."
     Thus to a dean some curate sloven
     Subscribes, "Dear sir, your brother loving."
     Thus all the footmen, shoeboys, porters,
     About St. James's, cry, "We courtiers."
     Thus Horace in the house will prate,
     "Sir, we, the ministers of state."
     Thus at the bar the booby Bettesworth,[1]
     Though half a crown o'erpays his sweat's worth;
     Who knows in law nor text nor margent,
     Calls Singleton[2] his brother sergeant.
     And thus fanatic saints, though neither in
     Doctrine nor discipline our brethren,
     Are brother Protestants and Christians,
     As much as Hebrews and Philistines:
     But in no other sense, than nature
     Has made a rat our fellow-creature.
     Lice from your body suck their food;
     But is a louse your flesh and blood?
     Though born of human filth and sweat, it
     As well may say man did beget it.
     And maggots in your nose and chin
     As well may claim you for their kin.
       Yet critics may object, why not?
     Since lice are brethren to a Scot:
     Which made our swarm of sects determine
     Employments for their brother vermin.
     But be they English, Irish, Scottish,
     What Protestant can be so sottish,
     While o'er the church these clouds are gathering
     To call a swarm of lice his brethren?
       As Moses, by divine advice,
     In Egypt turn'd the dust to lice;
     And as our sects, by all descriptions,
     Have hearts more harden'd than Egyptians
     As from the trodden dust they spring,
     And, turn'd to lice, infest the king:
     For pity's sake, it would be just,
     A rod should turn them back to dust.
       Let folks in high or holy stations
     Be proud of owning such relations;
     Let courtiers hug them in their bosom,
     As if they were afraid to lose 'em:
     While I, with humble Job, had rather
     Say to corruption—"Thou'rt my father."
     For he that has so little wit
     To nourish vermin, may be bit.

     [Footnote 1: These lines were the cause of the personal attack upon
     the Dean. See "Prose Works," iv, pp. 27,261. —W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Henry Singleton, Esq., then prime sergeant, afterwards
     lord-chief-justice of the common pleas, which he resigned, and was some
     time after made master of the rolls.—F.]

     Well! now, since the heat of my passion's abated,
     That the Dean hath lampoon'd me, my mind is elated:—
     Lampoon'd did I call it?—No—what was it then?
     What was it?—'Twas fame to be lash'd by his pen:
     For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till
     E'en doomsday, a poor insignificant reptile;
     Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious,
     Obscure, and unheard of—but now I'm notorious:
     Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one;
     The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one:
     If the end be obtain'd 'tis equal what portal
     I enter, since I'm to be render'd immortal:
     So clysters applied to the anus, 'tis said,
     By skilful physicians, give ease to the head—
     Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard,
     A man is a man, though he should be a bastard.
     Why sure 'tis some comfort that heroes should slay us,
     If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Fneas;
     And who by the Drapier would not rather damn'd be,
     Than demigoddized by madrigal Namby?[1]
       A man is no more who has once lost his breath;
     But poets convince us theres life after death.
     They call from their graves the king, or the peasant;
     Re-act our old deeds, and make what's past present:
     And when they would study to set forth alike,
     So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike,
     Whatever the subject be, coward or hero,
     A tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero;
     To a judge 'tis all one which he fixes his eye on,
     And a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion.

     [Footnote 1: Ambrose Philips. See ante, vol. i, p. 288.—W. E. B.]

     The scriptures affirm (as I heard in my youth,
     For indeed I ne'er read them, to speak for once truth)
     That death is the wages of sin, but the just
     Shall die not, although they be laid in the dust.
     They say so; so be it, I care not a straw,
     Although I be dead both in gospel and law;
     In verse I shall live, and be read in each climate;
     What more can be said of prime sergeant or primate?
     While Carter and Prendergast both may be rotten,
     And damn'd to the bargain, and yet be forgotten.

     In your indignation what mercy appears,
     While Jonathan's threaten'd with loss of his ears;
     For who would not think it a much better choice,
     By your knife to be mangled than rack'd with your voice.
     If truly you [would] be revenged on the parson,
     Command his attendance while you act your farce on;
     Instead of your maiming, your shooting, or banging,
     Bid Povey[1] secure him while you are haranguing.
     Had this been your method to torture him, long since,
     He had cut his own ears to be deaf to your nonsense.

     [Footnote 1: Povey was sergeant-at-arms to the House of
     Commons.—Scott.]

     To the Tune of "Derry Down."

       Jolly boys of St. Kevan's,[2] St. Patrick's, Donore
     And Smithfield, I'll tell you, if not told before,
     How Bettesworth, that booby, and scoundrel in grain,
     Has insulted us all by insulting the Dean.
         Knock him down, down, down, knock him down.

       The Dean and his merits we every one know,
     But this skip of a lawyer, where the de'il did he grow?
     How greater his merit at Four Courts or House,
     Than the barking of Towzer, or leap of a louse!
         Knock him down, etc.

       That he came from the Temple, his morals do show;
     But where his deep law is, few mortals yet know:
     His rhetoric, bombast, silly jests, are by far
     More like to lampooning, than pleading at bar.
         Knock him down, etc.

       This pedler, at speaking and making of laws,
     Has met with returns of all sorts but applause;
     Has, with noise and odd gestures, been prating some years,
     What honester folk never durst for their ears.
         Knock him down, etc.

       Of all sizes and sorts, the fanatical crew
     Are his brother Protestants, good men and true;
     Red hat, and blue bonnet, and turban's the same,
     What the de'il is't to him whence the devil they came.
         Knock him down, etc.

       Hobbes, Tindal, and Woolston, and Collins, and Nayler,
     And Muggleton, Toland, and Bradley the tailor,
     Are Christians alike; and it may be averr'd,
     He's a Christian as good as the rest of the herd.
         Knock him down, etc.

       He only the rights of the clergy debates;
     Their rights! their importance! We'll set on new rates
     On their tithes at half-nothing, their priesthood at less;
     What's next to be voted with ease you may guess.
         Knock him down, etc.

       At length his old master, (I need not him name,)
     To this damnable speaker had long owed a shame;
     When his speech came abroad, he paid him off clean,
     By leaving him under the pen of the Dean.
         Knock him down, etc.

       He kindled, as if the whole satire had been
     The oppression of virtue, not wages of sin:
     He began, as he bragg'd, with a rant and a roar;
     He bragg'd how he bounced, and he swore how he swore.[3]
         Knock him down, etc.

       Though he cringed to his deanship in very low strains,
     To others he boasted of knocking out brains,
     And slitting of noses, and cropping of ears,
     While his own ass's zags were more fit for the shears.
         Knock him down, etc.

       On this worrier of deans whene'er we can hit,
     We'll show him the way how to crop and to slit;
     We'll teach him some better address to afford
     To the dean of all deans, though he wears not a sword.
         Knock him down, etc.

       We'll colt him through Kevan, St. Patrick's, Donore,
     And Smithfield, as rap was ne'er colted before;
     We'll oil him with kennel, and powder him with grains,
     A modus right fit for insulters of deans.
         Knock him down, etc.

       And, when this is over, we'll make him amends,
     To the Dean he shall go; they shall kiss and be friends:
     But how? Why, the Dean shall to him disclose
     A face for to kiss, without eyes, ears, or nose.
         Knock him down, etc.

       If you say this is hard on a man that is reckon'd
     That sergeant-at-law whom we call Kite the Second,
     You mistake; for a slave, who will coax his superiors,
     May be proud to be licking a great man's posteriors.
         Knock him down, etc.

       What care we how high runs his passion or pride?
     Though his soul he despises, he values his hide;
     Then fear not his tongue, or his sword, or his knife;
     He'll take his revenge on his innocent wife.
         Knock him down, down, down, keep him down.

     [Footnote 1: GRUB STREET JOURNAL, No. 189, August 9,1734.—"In December
     last, Mr. Bettesworth, of the city of Dublin, serjeant-at-law, and member
     of parliament, openly swore, before many hundreds of people, that, upon
     the first opportunity, by the help of ruffians, he would murder or maim
     the Dean of St. Patrick's, (Dr. Swift.) Upon which thirty-one of the
     principal inhabitants of that liberty signed a paper to this effect:
     'That, out of their great love and respect to the Dean, to whom the whole
     kingdom hath so many obligations, they would endeavour to defend the life
     and limbs of the said Dean against a certain man and all his ruffians and
     murderers.' With which paper they, in the name of themselves and all the
     inhabitants of the city, attended the Dean on January 8, who being
     extremely ill in bed of a giddiness and deafness, and not able to receive
     them, immediately dictated a very grateful answer. The occasion of a
     certain man's declaration of his villanous design against the Dean, was a
     frivolous unproved suspicion that he had written some lines in verse
     reflecting upon him."—Scott.]

     [Footnote 2: Kevan Bayl was a cant term for the rabble of this district
     of Dublin.]

     [Footnote 3: Swift, in a letter to the Duke of Dorset, January, 1733-4,
     gives a full account of Bettesworth's visit to him, about which he says
     that the serjeant had spread some five hundred falsehoods.—W. E. B.]

     Dear Dick, pr'ythee tell by what passion you move?
     The world is in doubt whether hatred or love;
     And, while at good Cashel you rail with such spite,
     They shrewdly suspect it is all but a bite.
     You certainly know, though so loudly you vapour,
     His spite cannot wound who attempted the Drapier.
     Then, pr'ythee, reflect, take a word of advice;
     And, as your old wont is, change sides in a trice:
     On his virtues hold forth; 'tis the very best way;
     And say of the man what all honest men say.
     But if, still obdurate, your anger remains,
     If still your foul bosom more rancour contains,
     Say then more than they, nay, lavishly flatter;
     Tis your gross panegyrics alone can bespatter;
     For thine, my dear Dick, give me leave to speak plain,
     Like very foul mops, dirty more than they clean.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, a particular friend of the
     Dean.—Scott.]

     Ye paltry underlings of state,
     Ye senators who love to prate;
     Ye rascals of inferior note,
     Who, for a dinner, sell a vote;
     Ye pack of pensionary peers,
     Whose fingers itch for poets' ears;
     Ye bishops, far removed from saints,
     Why all this rage? Why these complaints?
     Why against printers all this noise?
     This summoning of blackguard boys?
     Why so sagacious in your guesses?
     Your effs, and tees, and arrs, and esses!
     Take my advice; to make you safe,
     I know a shorter way by half.
     The point is plain; remove the cause;
     Defend your liberties and laws.
     Be sometimes to your country true,
     Have once the public good in view:
     Bravely despise champagne at court,
     And choose to dine at home with port:
     Let prelates, by their good behaviour,
     Convince us they believe a Saviour;
     Nor sell what they so dearly bought,
     This country, now their own, for nought.
     Ne'er did a true satiric muse
     Virtue or innocence abuse;
     And 'tis against poetic rules
     To rail at men by nature fools:
     But       *       *       *
     *         *       *       *

     [Footnote 1: In the Dublin Edition, 1729—Scott.]