While with the fustian of thy book,
The witty ancient you enrobe,
You make the graceful Horace look
As pitiful as Tom M'Lobe.[1]
Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount,
And Helicon, for if this log
Should stumble once into the fount,
He'll make it muddy as a bog.
[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become
proverbial.—Scott.]
The witty ancient you enrobe,
You make the graceful Horace look
As pitiful as Tom M'Lobe.[1]
Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount,
And Helicon, for if this log
Should stumble once into the fount,
He'll make it muddy as a bog.
[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become
proverbial.—Scott.]
ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF LONGINUS
High as Longinus to the stars ascends,
So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.
So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.
RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA
Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras,
Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.
Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.
ON THE SAME
What Midas touch'd became true gold, but then,
Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen.
Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen.
CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY
For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy's works, as
they did not sell.
I must confess that I was somewhat warm,
I broke his teeth, but where's the mighty harm?
My work he said could ne'er afford him meat,
And teeth are useless where there's nought to eat!
they did not sell.
I must confess that I was somewhat warm,
I broke his teeth, but where's the mighty harm?
My work he said could ne'er afford him meat,
And teeth are useless where there's nought to eat!
TO CARTHY
On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his
Longinus.
Thus vagrant beggars, to extort
By charity a mean support,
Their sores and putrid ulcers show,
And shock our sense till we bestow.
On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his
Longinus.
Thus vagrant beggars, to extort
By charity a mean support,
Their sores and putrid ulcers show,
And shock our sense till we bestow.
TO CARTHY
On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his book of Poems.
How different from thine is Dunkin's lot!
Thou'rt curst for publishing, and he for not.
How different from thine is Dunkin's lot!
Thou'rt curst for publishing, and he for not.
ON CARTHY'S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS, UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS
So witches bent on bad pursuits,
Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.
Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.
TO CARTHY
Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal'd from light,
Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight,
But forced from their retirement into day,
The tender embryos half unknown decay;
Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare,
Expire when first exposed to open air.
Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight,
But forced from their retirement into day,
The tender embryos half unknown decay;
Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare,
Expire when first exposed to open air.
TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. DUNKIN
From the Gentleman's London Magazine for January.
My lines to him you give; to speak your due,
'Tis what no man alive will say of you.
Your works are like old Jacob's speckled goats,
Known by the verse, yet better by the notes.
Pope's essays upon some for Young's may pass,
But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass;
So green in different lights may pass for blue,
But what's dyed black will take no other hue.
My lines to him you give; to speak your due,
'Tis what no man alive will say of you.
Your works are like old Jacob's speckled goats,
Known by the verse, yet better by the notes.
Pope's essays upon some for Young's may pass,
But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass;
So green in different lights may pass for blue,
But what's dyed black will take no other hue.
UPON CARTHY'S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR
You have undone Horace,—what should hinder
Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar?
But ere you mount his fiery steed,
Beware, O Bard, how you proceed:—
For should you give him once the reins,
High up in air he'll turn your brains;
And if you should his fury check,
'Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.
Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar?
But ere you mount his fiery steed,
Beware, O Bard, how you proceed:—
For should you give him once the reins,
High up in air he'll turn your brains;
And if you should his fury check,
'Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.
DR. SWIFT WROTE THE FOLLOWING EPIGRAM
On one Delacourt's complimenting Carthy on his Poetry
Carthy, you say, writes well—his genius true,
You pawn your word for him—he'll vouch for you.
So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other's bail.
Carthy, you say, writes well—his genius true,
You pawn your word for him—he'll vouch for you.
So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other's bail.
POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN
Some ancient authors wisely write,
That he who drinks will wake at night,
Will never fail to lose his rest,
And feel a streightness in his chest;
A streightness in a double sense,
A streightness both of breath and pence:
Physicians say, it is but reasonable,
He that comes home at hour unseasonable,
(Besides a fall and broken shins,
Those smaller judgments for his sins;)
If, when he goes to bed, he meets
A teasing wife between the sheets,
'Tis six to five he'll never sleep,
But rave and toss till morning peep.
Yet harmless Betty must be blamed
Because you feel your lungs inflamed
But if you would not get a fever,
You never must one moment leave her.
This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,
If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You'd live till all your friends were weary of you.
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn'd you what would follow.
Are the Deanery sober hours?
Be witness for me all ye powers.
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me.
Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite.
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I 'scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable;
It strikes eleven,—get out of doors.—
This is my constant farewell
Yours,
J. S.
October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.
You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the
provost.
That he who drinks will wake at night,
Will never fail to lose his rest,
And feel a streightness in his chest;
A streightness in a double sense,
A streightness both of breath and pence:
Physicians say, it is but reasonable,
He that comes home at hour unseasonable,
(Besides a fall and broken shins,
Those smaller judgments for his sins;)
If, when he goes to bed, he meets
A teasing wife between the sheets,
'Tis six to five he'll never sleep,
But rave and toss till morning peep.
Yet harmless Betty must be blamed
Because you feel your lungs inflamed
But if you would not get a fever,
You never must one moment leave her.
This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,
If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You'd live till all your friends were weary of you.
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn'd you what would follow.
Are the Deanery sober hours?
Be witness for me all ye powers.
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me.
Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite.
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I 'scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable;
It strikes eleven,—get out of doors.—
This is my constant farewell
Yours,
J. S.
October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.
You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the
provost.
LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW[1] IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE
Resolve me this, ye happy dead,
Who've lain some hundred years in bed,
From every persecution free
That in this wretched life we see;
Would ye resume a second birth,
And choose once more to live on earth?
Who've lain some hundred years in bed,
From every persecution free
That in this wretched life we see;
Would ye resume a second birth,
And choose once more to live on earth?
[Footnote 1: Soon after Swift's acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they
passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of
Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the
following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In
the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer
to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it
has been since restored.—Scott.]
passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of
Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the
following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In
the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer
to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it
has been since restored.—Scott.]
DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE
FOLLOWING LINES
Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb:
"Mortal, I would not change my doom,
To live in such a restless state,
To be unfortunately great;
To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves,
To shine amidst a race of slaves;
To learn from wise men to complain
And only rise to fall again:
No! let my dusty relics rest,
Until I rise among the blest."
[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel's tomb lies within view of the window.]
FOLLOWING LINES
Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb:
"Mortal, I would not change my doom,
To live in such a restless state,
To be unfortunately great;
To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves,
To shine amidst a race of slaves;
To learn from wise men to complain
And only rise to fall again:
No! let my dusty relics rest,
Until I rise among the blest."
[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel's tomb lies within view of the window.]
THE UPSTART
The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the
editor, ascribed to Swift.—Scott.
"—— The rascal! that's too mild a name;
Does he forget from whence he came?
Has he forgot from whence he sprung?
A mushroom in a bed of dung;
A maggot in a cake of fat,
The offspring of a beggar's brat;
As eels delight to creep in mud,
To eels we may compare his blood;
His blood delights in mud to run,
Witness his lazy, lousy son!
Puff'd up with pride and insolence,
Without a grain of common sense.
See with what consequence he stalks!
With what pomposity he talks!
See how the gaping crowd admire
The stupid blockhead and the liar!
How long shall vice triumphant reign?
How long shall mortals bend to gain?
How long shall virtue hide her face,
And leave her votaries in disgrace?
—Let indignation fire my strains,
Another villain yet remains—
Let purse-proud C——n next approach;
With what an air he mounts his coach!
A cart would best become the knave,
A dirty parasite and slave!
His heart in poison deeply dipt,
His tongue with oily accents tipt,
A smile still ready at command,
The pliant bow, the forehead bland—"
* * * *
* * * *
editor, ascribed to Swift.—Scott.
"—— The rascal! that's too mild a name;
Does he forget from whence he came?
Has he forgot from whence he sprung?
A mushroom in a bed of dung;
A maggot in a cake of fat,
The offspring of a beggar's brat;
As eels delight to creep in mud,
To eels we may compare his blood;
His blood delights in mud to run,
Witness his lazy, lousy son!
Puff'd up with pride and insolence,
Without a grain of common sense.
See with what consequence he stalks!
With what pomposity he talks!
See how the gaping crowd admire
The stupid blockhead and the liar!
How long shall vice triumphant reign?
How long shall mortals bend to gain?
How long shall virtue hide her face,
And leave her votaries in disgrace?
—Let indignation fire my strains,
Another villain yet remains—
Let purse-proud C——n next approach;
With what an air he mounts his coach!
A cart would best become the knave,
A dirty parasite and slave!
His heart in poison deeply dipt,
His tongue with oily accents tipt,
A smile still ready at command,
The pliant bow, the forehead bland—"
* * * *
* * * *
ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD[1]
—URBS INTACTA MANET—semper intacta manebit,
Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat?
[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing
the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this
monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote
the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he
said, of the ladies.—Scott.]
Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat?
[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing
the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this
monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote
the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he
said, of the ladies.—Scott.]
TRANSLATION
A thistle is the Scottish arms,
Which to the toucher threatens harms,
What are the arms of Waterford,
That no man touches—but a ——?
A thistle is the Scottish arms,
Which to the toucher threatens harms,
What are the arms of Waterford,
That no man touches—but a ——?
VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1]
Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam
Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas!
MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.
Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas!
MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.
See, here's the grand approach,
That way is for his grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;[2]
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind:
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.
[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See
vol. i, p. 74.—W.E..B]
[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed
over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding
of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a
cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that
signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation,"
and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No.
59.—W. E. B.]
That way is for his grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;[2]
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind:
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.
[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See
vol. i, p. 74.—W.E..B]
[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed
over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding
of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a
cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that
signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation,"
and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No.
59.—W. E. B.]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY
Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it?—A judge or a peer.[2]
Which nobody can deny.
This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
Which nobody can deny.
O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
Which nobody can deny.
So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
Which nobody can deny.
But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue.
Which nobody can deny.
Some sell it for profit, 'tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own.
Which nobody can deny.
But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these.
Which nobody can deny.
There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood.
Which nobody can deny.
But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on't in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We'll paint 'em in colours as black as their crime.
Which nobody can deny.
But P——r and copper L——h we'll excuse,
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse,
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes.
Which nobody can deny.
Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it?—A judge or a peer.[2]
Which nobody can deny.
This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
Which nobody can deny.
O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
Which nobody can deny.
So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
Which nobody can deny.
But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue.
Which nobody can deny.
Some sell it for profit, 'tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own.
Which nobody can deny.
But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these.
Which nobody can deny.
There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood.
Which nobody can deny.
But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on't in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We'll paint 'em in colours as black as their crime.
Which nobody can deny.
But P——r and copper L——h we'll excuse,
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse,
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes.
Which nobody can deny.
[Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who
threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had
not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve
are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course
this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of
England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have
been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written
by Swift.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]
threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had
not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve
are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course
this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of
England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have
been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written
by Swift.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN
Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by
his opposition to Wood's coinage.
his opposition to Wood's coinage.
BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL
I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;
Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't.
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason.
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more.
Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross,
For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross.
To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win,
He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin.
Why, theres my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows,
He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows.
"A bishop," says the noble squire, "I hate the very name,
To have two thousand pounds a-year—O 'tis a burning shame!
Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!"
And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive:
Now from his lordship's grace I hold a little piece of ground,
And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound.
Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo,
Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go."
He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks,
For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box.
And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace,
Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face:
Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain;
He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain.
"Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend,
I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend,
Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can;
I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man."
Then said his lordship with a smile, "I must have lawful cash,
I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's trash!"
"God bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher,
Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire."
To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke,
Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk.
And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found,
His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound;
"Why, sirrah," said the noble squire, "how dare you see my face,
Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace."
And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack,
That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back.
Then God preserve his lordship's grace, and make him live as long
As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.
I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;
Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't.
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason.
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more.
Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross,
For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross.
To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win,
He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin.
Why, theres my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows,
He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows.
"A bishop," says the noble squire, "I hate the very name,
To have two thousand pounds a-year—O 'tis a burning shame!
Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!"
And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive:
Now from his lordship's grace I hold a little piece of ground,
And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound.
Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo,
Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go."
He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks,
For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box.
And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace,
Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face:
Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain;
He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain.
"Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend,
I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend,
Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can;
I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man."
Then said his lordship with a smile, "I must have lawful cash,
I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's trash!"
"God bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher,
Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire."
To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke,
Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk.
And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found,
His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound;
"Why, sirrah," said the noble squire, "how dare you see my face,
Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace."
And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack,
That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back.
Then God preserve his lordship's grace, and make him live as long
As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.
TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN
A POEM
Serus in coelum redeas, diuque
Laetus intersis populo.—HOR., Carm. I, ii, 45.
Serus in coelum redeas, diuque
Laetus intersis populo.—HOR., Carm. I, ii, 45.
Great, good, and just, was once applied
To one who for his country died;[l]
To one who lives in its defence,
We speak it in a happier sense.
O may the fates thy life prolong!
Our country then can dread no wrong:
In thy great care we place our trust,
Because thou'rt great, and good, and just:
Thy breast unshaken can oppose
Our private and our public foes:
The latent wiles, and tricks of state,
Your wisdom can with ease defeat.
When power in all its pomp appears,
It falls before thy rev'rend years,
And willingly resigns its place
To something nobler in thy face.
When once the fierce pursuing Gaul
Had drawn his sword for Marius' fall,
The godlike hero with a frown
Struck all his rage and malice down;
Then how can we dread William Wood,
If by thy presence he's withstood?
Where wisdom stands to keep the field,
In vain he brings his brazen shield;
Though like the sibyl's priest he comes,
With furious din of brazen drums
The force of thy superior voice
Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.
[Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose:
"Great, good, and just! could I but rate
My griefs to thy too rigid fate,
I'd weep the world in such a strain
As it should deluge once again;
But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,
I'll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds."
See Napier's "Montrose and the Covenanters," i, 520.—W. E. B.]
To one who for his country died;[l]
To one who lives in its defence,
We speak it in a happier sense.
O may the fates thy life prolong!
Our country then can dread no wrong:
In thy great care we place our trust,
Because thou'rt great, and good, and just:
Thy breast unshaken can oppose
Our private and our public foes:
The latent wiles, and tricks of state,
Your wisdom can with ease defeat.
When power in all its pomp appears,
It falls before thy rev'rend years,
And willingly resigns its place
To something nobler in thy face.
When once the fierce pursuing Gaul
Had drawn his sword for Marius' fall,
The godlike hero with a frown
Struck all his rage and malice down;
Then how can we dread William Wood,
If by thy presence he's withstood?
Where wisdom stands to keep the field,
In vain he brings his brazen shield;
Though like the sibyl's priest he comes,
With furious din of brazen drums
The force of thy superior voice
Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.
[Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose:
"Great, good, and just! could I but rate
My griefs to thy too rigid fate,
I'd weep the world in such a strain
As it should deluge once again;
But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,
I'll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds."
See Napier's "Montrose and the Covenanters," i, 520.—W. E. B.]
TO THE CITIZENS[1]
And shall the Patriot who maintain'd your cause,
From future ages only meet applause?
Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd?
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn'd for parricide.
Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd;
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief,
And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief,
But, if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to—die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast,
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?
If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don't deserve, and won't draw down your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence;
That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free.
M. B.
[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature
M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the
Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's
Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the
author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments,
while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth
letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature
of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to
encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly
their own.—Scott.]
From future ages only meet applause?
Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd?
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn'd for parricide.
Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd;
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief,
And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief,
But, if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to—die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast,
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?
If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don't deserve, and won't draw down your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence;
That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free.
M. B.
[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature
M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the
Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's
Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the
author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments,
while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth
letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature
of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to
encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly
their own.—Scott.]
PUNCH'S PETITION TO THE LADIES
——Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,
Auri sacra fames!——VIRG., Aen., iii.
This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of
Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems
to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton,
when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.—Scott. See
vol. i, p. 169.—W. E. B.
Auri sacra fames!——VIRG., Aen., iii.
This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of
Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems
to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton,
when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.—Scott. See
vol. i, p. 169.—W. E. B.
Fair ones who do all hearts command,
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite—Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you'll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh'invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land—and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And call'd our chastest virgins whores;
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus nor the devil;
E'en us he hurried with full rage,
Most hoarsely squalling off the stage;
And faith our fright was very great
To see a minister of state,
Arm'd with power and fury come
To force us from our little home—
We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason,
An accusation of high-treason;
Till, starting up, says Banamiere,
"Treason, my friends, we need not fear,
For 'gainst the Brass we used no power,
Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1]
Nor did we show the least affection
To Rochford or the Meath election;
Nor did we sing,—'Machugh he means.'"
"You villain, I'll dash out your brains,
'Tis no affair of state which brings
Me here—or business of the King's;
I'm come to seize you all as debtors,
And bind you fast in iron fetters,
From sight of every friend in town,
Till fifty pound's to me paid down."
—"Fifty!" quoth I, "a devilish sum;
But stay till the brass farthings come,
Then we shall all be rich as Jews,
From Castle down to lowest stews;
That sum shall to you then be told,
Though now we cannot furnish gold."
Quoth he, "thou vile mis-shapen beast,
Thou knave, am I become thy jest;
And dost thou think that I am come
To carry nought but farthings home!
Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves,
Farthings are made for Irish slaves;
No brass for me, it must be gold,
Or fifty pounds in silver told,
That can by any means obtain
Freedom for thee and for thy train."
"Votre trhs humble serviteur,
I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure,
But from the bottom of my belly,
I do in sober sadness tell you,
I thought it was good reasoning,
For us fictitious men to bring
Brass counters made by William Wood
Intrinsic as we flesh and blood;
Then since we are but mimic men,
Pray let us pay in mimic coin."
Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate,
And couldst for ever hold debate;
But think'st thou I have nought to do
But to stand prating thus with you?
Therefore to stop your noisy parly,
I do at once assure you fairly,
That not a puppet of you all
Shall stir a step without this wall,
Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum,
Until you pay the foresaid sum."
Then marching off with swiftest race
To write dispatches for his grace,
The revel-master left the room,
And us condemn'd to fatal doom.
Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace,
Or if my jokes did ever please,
Use all your interest with your sec,[2]
(They say he's at the ladies' beck,)
And though he thinks as much of gold
As ever Midas[3] did of old:
Your charms I'm sure can never fail,
Your eyes must influence, must prevail;
At your command he'll set us free,
Let us to you owe liberty.
Get us a license now to play,
And we'll in duty ever pray.
[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure
passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his
absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant,
who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, rythmi gratia.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: See Ovid, "Metam." xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.—W. E. B.]
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite—Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you'll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh'invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land—and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And call'd our chastest virgins whores;
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus nor the devil;
E'en us he hurried with full rage,
Most hoarsely squalling off the stage;
And faith our fright was very great
To see a minister of state,
Arm'd with power and fury come
To force us from our little home—
We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason,
An accusation of high-treason;
Till, starting up, says Banamiere,
"Treason, my friends, we need not fear,
For 'gainst the Brass we used no power,
Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1]
Nor did we show the least affection
To Rochford or the Meath election;
Nor did we sing,—'Machugh he means.'"
"You villain, I'll dash out your brains,
'Tis no affair of state which brings
Me here—or business of the King's;
I'm come to seize you all as debtors,
And bind you fast in iron fetters,
From sight of every friend in town,
Till fifty pound's to me paid down."
—"Fifty!" quoth I, "a devilish sum;
But stay till the brass farthings come,
Then we shall all be rich as Jews,
From Castle down to lowest stews;
That sum shall to you then be told,
Though now we cannot furnish gold."
Quoth he, "thou vile mis-shapen beast,
Thou knave, am I become thy jest;
And dost thou think that I am come
To carry nought but farthings home!
Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves,
Farthings are made for Irish slaves;
No brass for me, it must be gold,
Or fifty pounds in silver told,
That can by any means obtain
Freedom for thee and for thy train."
"Votre trhs humble serviteur,
I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure,
But from the bottom of my belly,
I do in sober sadness tell you,
I thought it was good reasoning,
For us fictitious men to bring
Brass counters made by William Wood
Intrinsic as we flesh and blood;
Then since we are but mimic men,
Pray let us pay in mimic coin."
Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate,
And couldst for ever hold debate;
But think'st thou I have nought to do
But to stand prating thus with you?
Therefore to stop your noisy parly,
I do at once assure you fairly,
That not a puppet of you all
Shall stir a step without this wall,
Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum,
Until you pay the foresaid sum."
Then marching off with swiftest race
To write dispatches for his grace,
The revel-master left the room,
And us condemn'd to fatal doom.
Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace,
Or if my jokes did ever please,
Use all your interest with your sec,[2]
(They say he's at the ladies' beck,)
And though he thinks as much of gold
As ever Midas[3] did of old:
Your charms I'm sure can never fail,
Your eyes must influence, must prevail;
At your command he'll set us free,
Let us to you owe liberty.
Get us a license now to play,
And we'll in duty ever pray.
[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure
passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his
absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant,
who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, rythmi gratia.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: See Ovid, "Metam." xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.—W. E. B.]
EPIGRAM
Great folks are of a finer mould;
Lord! how politely they can scold!
While a coarse English tongue will itch,
For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.
Lord! how politely they can scold!
While a coarse English tongue will itch,
For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.
EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT[1]
ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH
DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2]
Lord Pam[3] in the church (you'd you think it) kneel'd down;
When told that the Duke was just come to Town—
His station despising, unawed by the place,
He flies from his God to attend to his Grace.
To the Court it was better to pay his devotion,
Since God had no hand in his Lordship's promotion.
[Footnote 1: See vol. i, "The Storm," at p. 242.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French
Pamphile. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the
whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of
wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most
vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that Title from the
days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was
promoted non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus.
From a note in "The Toast," by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin
verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London,
1736.—W. E. B.]
DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2]
Lord Pam[3] in the church (you'd you think it) kneel'd down;
When told that the Duke was just come to Town—
His station despising, unawed by the place,
He flies from his God to attend to his Grace.
To the Court it was better to pay his devotion,
Since God had no hand in his Lordship's promotion.
[Footnote 1: See vol. i, "The Storm," at p. 242.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French
Pamphile. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the
whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of
wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most
vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that Title from the
days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was
promoted non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus.
From a note in "The Toast," by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin
verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London,
1736.—W. E. B.]
EPIGRAM[1]
Behold! a proof of Irish sense;
Here Irish wit is seen!
When nothing's left that's worth defence,
We build a magazine.
[Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician,
Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed
for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, "Oh! Oh!"
said the Dean, "This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my
tablets"—and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above
epigram.—W. E. B.]
Here Irish wit is seen!
When nothing's left that's worth defence,
We build a magazine.
[Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician,
Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed
for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, "Oh! Oh!"
said the Dean, "This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my
tablets"—and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above
epigram.—W. E. B.]
TRIFLES
GEORGE ROCHFORT'S VERSES FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, AT LARACOR, NEAR TRIM
MUSA CLONSHOGHIANA
That Downpatrick's Dean, or Patrick's down went,
Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant;
So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent,
Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent.
Our parsons agree here, as those did at Trent,
Dan's forehead has got a most damnable dent,
Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent.
But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly bent,
With your bloody ouns in one stanza pent;
Does Jack's utter ruin at picket prevent,
For an answer in specie to yours must be sent;
So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent,
And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint,
Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment;
But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent.
Bellcampe, January 1, 1717.
Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant;
So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent,
Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent.
Our parsons agree here, as those did at Trent,
Dan's forehead has got a most damnable dent,
Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent.
But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly bent,
With your bloody ouns in one stanza pent;
Does Jack's utter ruin at picket prevent,
For an answer in specie to yours must be sent;
So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent,
And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint,
Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment;
But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent.
Bellcampe, January 1, 1717.
A LEFT-HANDED LETTER[1] TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718
Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue,
That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung;
We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst,
Yet still are no wiser than we were at first.
Pudet haec opprobria, I freely must tell ye,
Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli. Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer,
You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2];
I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score;
How many to answer? One, two, three, or four,
But, because the three former are long ago past,
I shall, for method-sake, begin with the last.
You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe,
Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow.
Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field,
Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield.
So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them,
Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, Te Deum. So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground,
Comes off by out-laughing the company round:
In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies,
Having thus overthrown all our farther advances.
My offers of peace you ill understood;
Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good?
'Twas to teach you in modester language your duty;
For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye;
As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends
To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends.
But we like Antfus and Hercules fight,
The oftener you fall, the oftener you write:
And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown,
I'll first take you up, and then take you down;
And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound
The worst dunce in your school, till he's heaved from the ground.
I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and
the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of
business. September 20, 1718.—I will send you the rest when I have
leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.
That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung;
We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst,
Yet still are no wiser than we were at first.
Pudet haec opprobria, I freely must tell ye,
Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli. Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer,
You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2];
I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score;
How many to answer? One, two, three, or four,
But, because the three former are long ago past,
I shall, for method-sake, begin with the last.
You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe,
Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow.
Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field,
Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield.
So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them,
Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, Te Deum. So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground,
Comes off by out-laughing the company round:
In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies,
Having thus overthrown all our farther advances.
My offers of peace you ill understood;
Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good?
'Twas to teach you in modester language your duty;
For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye;
As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends
To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends.
But we like Antfus and Hercules fight,
The oftener you fall, the oftener you write:
And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown,
I'll first take you up, and then take you down;
And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound
The worst dunce in your school, till he's heaved from the ground.
I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and
the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of
business. September 20, 1718.—I will send you the rest when I have
leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.
[Footnote 1: The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility
of printing it left-handed as it was written.—H.]
[Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see "Prose Works,"
v, 326.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella,
"Prose Works," ii, especially p. 404.—W. E. B.]
of printing it left-handed as it was written.—H.]
[Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see "Prose Works,"
v, 326.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella,
"Prose Works," ii, especially p. 404.—W. E. B.]
TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S IN ANSWER TO HIS LEFT-HANDED LETTER
Since your poetic prancer is turn'd into Cancer,
I'll tell you at once, sir, I'm now not your man, sir;
For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found
With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground?
When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back;
But I found out the way to your den by its track:
From thence the black monster I drew, o' my conscience,
And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense.
When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue,
You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew;
Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair,
Therefore turn about to the right, as you were;
Then if with true courage your ground you maintain,
My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain:
Who's greater by far than great Alexander,
As much as a teal surpasses a gander;
As much as a game-cocks excell'd by a sparrow;
As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow:
As much and much more as the most handsome man
Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan.
T. SHERIDAN.
I'll tell you at once, sir, I'm now not your man, sir;
For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found
With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground?
When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back;
But I found out the way to your den by its track:
From thence the black monster I drew, o' my conscience,
And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense.
When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue,
You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew;
Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair,
Therefore turn about to the right, as you were;
Then if with true courage your ground you maintain,
My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain:
Who's greater by far than great Alexander,
As much as a teal surpasses a gander;
As much as a game-cocks excell'd by a sparrow;
As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow:
As much and much more as the most handsome man
Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan.
T. SHERIDAN.
This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called
the left hand.
Oft have I been by poets told,
That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old.
Alas, thy numbers failing all,
Poor Jonathan, how they do fall!
Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell,
Now jingle like a rusty bridle:
Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet,
Now limp upon their gouty feet:
Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime,
Are humbled by the tyrant, Time:
Alas! what cannot Time subdue?
Time has reduced my wine and you;
Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings,
Disabled both in our main springs;
So that of late we two are grown
The jest and scorn of all the town.
But yet, if my advice be ta'en,
We two may be as great again;
I'll send you wings, you send me wine;
Then you will fly, and I shall shine.
This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.
How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her;
Little did she know, I was ambidexter.
T. SHERIDAN.
the left hand.
Oft have I been by poets told,
That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old.
Alas, thy numbers failing all,
Poor Jonathan, how they do fall!
Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell,
Now jingle like a rusty bridle:
Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet,
Now limp upon their gouty feet:
Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime,
Are humbled by the tyrant, Time:
Alas! what cannot Time subdue?
Time has reduced my wine and you;
Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings,
Disabled both in our main springs;
So that of late we two are grown
The jest and scorn of all the town.
But yet, if my advice be ta'en,
We two may be as great again;
I'll send you wings, you send me wine;
Then you will fly, and I shall shine.
This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.
How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her;
Little did she know, I was ambidexter.
T. SHERIDAN.