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

     Written July 15, 1721, at night.

     I'd have you t' know, George, Dan, Dean, and Nim,
     That I've learned how verse t' compose trim,
     Much better b'half th'n you, n'r you, n'r him,
     And that I'd rid'cule their'nd your flam-flim.
     Ay b't then, p'rhaps, says you, t's a merry whim,
     With 'bundance of mark'd notes i' th' rim,
     So th't I ought n't for t' be morose 'nd t' look grim,
     Think n't your 'p'stle put m' in a megrim;
     Though 'n rep't't'on day, I 'ppear ver' slim,
     Th' last bowl't Helsham's did m' head t' swim,
     So th't I h'd man' aches 'n v'ry scrubb'd limb,
     Cause th' top of th' bowl I h'd oft us'd t' skim;
     And b'sides D'lan' swears th't I h'd swall'w'd s'v'r'l brim-
     Mers, 'nd that my vis'ge's cov'r'd o'er with r'd pim-
     Ples: m'r'o'er though m' scull were ('s 'tis n't) 's strong's tim-
     Ber, 't must have ach'd. Th' clans of th' c'llege Sanh'drim,
     Pres'nt the'r humbl' and 'fect'nate respects; thats t' say,
         D'ln', 'chlin, P. Ludl', Dic' St'wart, H'lsham, Capt'n
         P'rr' Walmsl', 'nd Long sh'nks Timm.[2]

     [Footnote 1: For the persons here alluded to see "The Country Life," vol.
     i, p. 137.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Dr. James Stopford, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]

     Dear Sheridan! a gentle pair
     Of Gaulstown lads (for such they are)
     Besides a brace of grave divines,
     Adore the smoothness of thy lines:
     Smooth as our basin's silver flood,
     Ere George had robb'd it of its mud;
     Smoother than Pegasus' old shoe,
     Ere Vulcan comes to make him new.
     The board on which we set our a—s,
     Is not so smooth as are thy verses;
     Compared with which (and that's enough)
     A smoothing-iron itself is rough.
       Nor praise I less that circumcision,
     By modern poets call'd elision,
     With which, in proper station placed,
     Thy polish'd lines are firmly braced.[1]
     Thus a wise tailor is not pinching,
     But turns at every seam an inch in:
     Or else, be sure, your broad-cloth breeches
     Will ne'er be smooth, nor hold their stitches.
     Thy verse, like bricks, defy the weather,
     When smooth'd by rubbing them together;
     Thy words so closely wedged and short are,
     Like walls, more lasting without mortar;
     By leaving out the needless vowels,
     You save the charge of lime and trowels.
     One letter still another locks,
     Each grooved and dovetail'd like a box;
     Thy muse is tuckt up and succinct;
     In chains thy syllables are linkt;
     Thy words together tied in small hanks,
     Close as the Macedonian phalanx;[2]
     Or like the umbo[3] of the Romans,
     Which fiercest foes could break by no means.
     The critic, to his grief will find,
     How firmly these indentures bind.
     So, in the kindred painter's art,
     The shortening is the nicest part.
       Philologers of future ages,
     How will they pore upon thy pages!
     Nor will they dare to break the joints,
     But help thee to be read with points:
     Or else, to show their learned labour, you
     May backward be perused like Hebrew,
     In which they need not lose a bit
     Or of thy harmony or wit.
     To make a work completely fine,
     Number and weight and measure join;
     Then all must grant your lines are weighty
     Where thirty weigh as much as eighty;
     All must allow your numbers more,
     Where twenty lines exceed fourscore;
     Nor can we think your measure short,
     Where less than forty fill a quart,
     With Alexandrian in the close,
     Long, long, long, long, like Dan's long nose.[4]

     [Footnote 1: In the Dublin edition:
       "Makes thy verse smooth, and makes them last."]

     [Footnote 2: For a clear description of the phalanx, see Smith's "Greek
     and Roman Antiquities," p. 488.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: The projection in the centre of the shield, which caused the
     missiles of the enemy to glance off. See Smith, as above,
     p. 298.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: See post, the poems on Dan Jackson's Picture.—W. E. B.]

     Gaulstown, Aug. 2, 1721.

     Dear Tom, this verse, which however the beginning may appear, yet in the
     end's good metre,
     Is sent to desire that, when your August vacation comes, your friends
     you'd meet here.
     For why should you stay in that filthy hole, I mean the city so smoky,
     When you have not one friend left in town, or at least not one that's
     witty, to joke w' ye?
     For as for honest John,[1] though I'm not sure on't, yet I'll be hang'd,
     lest he
     Be gone down to the county of Wexford with that great peer the Lord
     Anglesey.[2]
     O! but I forgot; perhaps, by this time, you may have one come to town,
     but I don't know whether he be friend or foe, Delany:
     But, however, if he be come, bring him down, and you shall go back in a
     fortnight, for I know there's no delaying ye.
     O! I forgot too: I believe there may be one more, I mean that great fat
     joker, friend Helsham, he
     That wrote the prologue,[3] and if you stay with him, depend on't, in the
     end, he'll sham ye.
     Bring down Longshanks Jim[4] too; but, now I think on't, he's not yet
     come from Courtown,[5] I fancy;
     For I heard, a month ago, that he was down there a-courting sly Nancy.
     However, bring down yourself, and you bring down all; for, to say it we
     may venture,
     In thee Delany's spleen, John's mirth, Helsham's jokes, and the soft soul
     of amorous Jemmy, centre.

     POSTSCRIPT

     I had forgot to desire you to bring down what I say you have, and you'll
     believe me as sure as a gun, and own it;
     I mean, what no other mortal in the universe can boast of, your own
     spirit of pun, and own wit.
     And now I hope you'll excuse this rhyming, which I must say is (though
     written somewhat at large) trim and clean;
     And so I conclude, with humble respects as usual
       Your most dutiful and obedient
                                 GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN.

     [Footnote 1: Supposed to mean Dr. Walmsley.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: Arthur, Earl of Anglesey.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 3: It was customary with Dr. Sheridan to have a Greek play
     acted by his head class, just before they entered the university; and,
     accordingly, in the year 1720, the Doctor having fixed on Hippolytus,
     writ a prologue in English, to be spoken by Master Thom. Putland, one of
     the youngest children he had in his school. The prologue was very neat
     and elegant, but extremely puerile, and quite adapted to the childhood of
     the speaker, who as regularly was taught and rehearsed his part as any of
     the upper lads did theirs. However, it unfortunately happened that Dr.
     King, Archbishop of Dublin, had promised Sheridan that he would go and
     see his lads perform the tragedy. Upon which Dr. Helsham writ another
     prologue, wherein he laughed egregiously at Sheridan's; and privately
     instructed Master Putland how to act his part; and at the same time
     exacted a promise from the child, that no consideration should make him
     repeat that prologue which he had been taught by Sheridan. When the play
     was to be acted, the archbishop attended according to his promise; and
     Master Putland began Helsham's prologue, and went through it to the
     amazement of Sheridan; which fired him to such a degree (although he was
     one of the best-natured men in the world) that he would have entirely put
     off the play, had it not been in respect to the archbishop, who was
     indeed highly complimented in Helsham's performance. When the play was
     over, the archbishop was very desirous to hear Sheridan's prologue; but
     all the entreaties of the archbishop, the child's father, and Sheridan,
     could not prevail with Master Putland to repeat it, having, he said,
     promised faithfully that he would not, upon any account whatever; and
     therefore insisted that he would keep his word.—F.]

     [Footnote 4: Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.—F.]

     [Footnote 5: The seat of —— Hussay, Esq., in the county of
     Kildare.—F.]

     Hail, human compound quadrifarious,
     Invincible as wight Briareus![2]
     Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one,
     Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon![3]
     O may your vastness deign t' excuse
     The praises of a puny Muse,
     Unable, in her utmost flight,
     To reach thy huge colossian height!
     T' attempt to write like thee were frantic,
     Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic.
       Yet let me bless, in humbler strain,
     Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian[4] vein,
     Pour'd out t' enrich thy native isle,
     As Egypt wont to be with Nile.
     O, how I joy to see thee wander,
     In many a winding loose meander,
     In circling mazes, smooth and supple,
     And ending in a clink quadruple;
     Loud, yet agreeable withal,
     Like rivers rattling in their fall!
     Thine, sure, is poetry divine,
     Where wit and majesty combine;
     Where every line, as huge as seven,
     If stretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven:
     Here all comparing would be slandering,
     The least is more than Alexandrine.
       Against thy verse Time sees with pain,
     He whets his envious scythe in vain;
     For though from thee he much may pare,
     Yet much thou still wilt have to spare.
       Thou hast alone the skill to feast
     With Roman elegance of taste,
     Who hast of rhymes as vast resources
     As Pompey's caterer of courses.
       O thou, of all the Nine inspired!
     My languid soul, with teaching tired,
     How is it raptured, when it thinks
     Of thy harmonious set of chinks;
     Each answering each in various rhymes,
     Like echo to St. Patrick's chimes!
       Thy Muse, majestic in her rage,
     Moves like Statira[5] on the stage;
     And scarcely can one page sustain
     The length of such a flowing train:
     Her train of variegated dye
     Shows like Thaumantia's[6] in the sky;
     Alike they glow, alike they please,
     Alike imprest by Phoebus' rays.
       Thy verse—(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it)
     To what, to what shall I compare it?
     'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on,
     The famous statue of Laocoon.
     'Tis like,—O yes, 'tis very like it,
     The long, long string, with which you fly kite.
     'Tis like what you, and one or two more,
     Roar to your Echo[7] in good humour;
     And every couplet thou hast writ
     Concludes with Rhattah-whittah-whit.[8]

     [Footnote 1: These were written all in circles, one within another, as
     appears from the observations in the following poem by Dr. Swift.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: The hundred-armed giant, "centumgeminus Briareus," Virg.,
     "Aen.," vi, 287; also called Aegaeon, "centum cui brachia dicunt," Virg.,
     "Aen.," x, 565; see Heyne's notes.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: A mythic king, having three bodies, whose arms were carried
     off by Hercules.—Lucr., v, 28, and Munro's note; Virg. "Aen.," vii, 662,
     and viii, 202:

                                "maxumus ultor
       Tergemini nece Geryonae spoliisque superbus
       Alcides aderat taurosque hac victor agebat
       Ingentis, vallemque boves amnemque tenebant."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Cambyses, the warrior king of Persia, whose name is the
     emblem of bravado.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: Represented as the perfection of female beauty in
     "Cassandra," a romance by La Calprenhde, romancier et auteur dramatique,
     1610-1663,—Larousse.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6: Iris, daughter of Thaumas, and the messenger of Juno,
     descending and returning on the rainbow.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 7: At Gaulstown there is so famous an echo, that if you repeat
     two lines of Virgil out of a speaking-trumpet, you may hear the nymph
     return them to your ear with great propriety and clearness.—F.]

     [Footnote 8: These words allude to their amusements with the echo, having
     no other signification but to express the sound of stones when beaten one
     against the other, returned by the echo.—F.]

     It never was known that circular letters,
     By humble companions were sent to their betters,
     And, as to the subject, our judgment, meherc'le,
     Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle.
     But now for your verses; we tell you, imprimis,
     The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is,
     That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound,
     And, before we find either, our noddles turn round.
     Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant,
     To give us your measures of line by a quadrant.
     But we took our dividers, and found your d—n'd metre,
     In each single verse, took up a diameter.
     But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture
     George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre?[1]
     'Twill appear to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd,
     For the chord of your circle is now in their hand.
     The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether,
     By which your jade Pegasus, fix'd in a tether,
     As his betters are used, shall be lash'd round the ring,
     Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string.
     Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass,
     To encroach on his art by writing of bombast;
     And has taken just now a firm resolution
     To answer your style without circumlocution.
       Lady Betty[2] presents you her service most humble,
     And is not afraid your worship will grumble,
     That she make of your verses a hoop for Miss Tam.[3]
     Which is all at present; and so I remain—

     [Footnote 1: There were four human figures in the centre of the circular
     verses.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George
     Rochfort, Esq.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: Miss Thomason, Lady Betty's daughter, then, perhaps, about a
     year old; afterwards married to Gustavus Lambert, Esq., of Paynstown,
     in the county of Meath.—Scott.]

     With music and poetry equally blest,
     A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest:
     "Great author of harmony, verses, and light!
     Assisted by thee, I both fiddle and write.
     Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day,
     My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away.
     Thy substitute here, Vice Apollo, disdains
     To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains;
     Thy manual signet refuses to put
     To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut.
     Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus! and grant
     Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want.
     Though the Dean and Delany transcendently shine,
     O brighten one solo or sonnet of mine!
     With them I'm content thou shouldst make thy abode;
     But visit thy servant in jig or in ode;
     Make one work immortal: 'tis all I request."
       Apollo look'd pleased; and, resolving to jest,
     Replied, "Honest friend, I've consider'd thy case;
     Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humorous face.
     Thy petition I grant: the boon is not great;
     Thy works shall continue; and here's the receipt.
     On rondeaus hereafter thy fiddle-strings spend:
     Write verses in circles: they never shall end."

     To fair Lady Betty Dan sat for his picture,
     And defied her to draw him so oft as he piqued her,
     He knew she'd no pencil or colouring by her,
     And therefore he thought he might safely defy her.
     Come sit, says my lady; then whips up her scissar,
     And cuts out his coxcomb in silk in a trice, sir.
     Dan sat with attention, and saw with surprise
     How she lengthen'd his chin, how she hollow'd his eyes;
     But flatter'd himself with a secret conceit,
     That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat.
     Lady Betty observed it, then pulls out a pin,
     And varies the grain of the stuff to his grin:
     And, to make roasted silk to resemble his raw-bone,
     She raised up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone;
     Till at length in exactest proportion he rose,
     From the crown of his head to the arch of his nose;
     And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all,
     'Tis certain the copy had outdone the original.
       Well, that's but my outside, says Dan, with a vapour;
     Say you so? says my lady; I've lined it with paper.

     PATR. DELANY sculpsit.

     [Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 96. Dan Jackson's nose seems to have been a
     favourite subject for raillery, as in this and some following
     pieces.—W. E. B.]

     Clarissa draws her scissars from the case
     To draw the lines of poor Dan Jackson's face;
     One sloping cut made forehead, nose, and chin,
     A nick produced a mouth, and made him grin,
     Such as in tailor's measure you have seen.
     But still were wanting his grimalkin eyes,
     For which gray worsted stocking paint supplies.
     Th' unravell'd thread through needle's eye convey'd,
     Transferr'd itself into his pasteboard head.
     How came the scissars to be thus outdone?
     The needle had an eye, and they had none.
     O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan—
     You'll swear the pasteboard was the better man.
     "The devil!" says he, "the head is not so full!"
     Indeed it is—behold the paper skull.

     THO. SHERIDAN sculp.

     If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it,
     I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it.

     THO. SHERIDAN sculp.

     Dan's evil genius in a trice
     Had stripp'd him of his coin at dice.
     Chloe, observing this disgrace,
     On Pam cut out his rueful face.
     By G—, says Dan, 'tis very hard,
     Cut out at dice, cut out at card!

     G. ROCHFORT sculp.

     Whilst you three merry poets traffic
     To give us a description graphic
     Of Dan's large nose in modern sapphic;

     I spend my time in making sermons,
     Or writing libels on the Germans,
     Or murmuring at Whigs' preferments.

     But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort,
     And look in English, French, and Scotch for't,
     At last I'm fairly forced to botch for't.

     Bid Lady Betty recollect her,
     And tell, who was it could direct her
     To draw the face of such a spectre?

     I must confess, that as to me, sirs,
     Though I ne'er saw her hold the scissars,
     I now could safely swear it is hers.

     'Tis true, no nose could come in better;
     'Tis a vast subject stuff'd with matter,
     Which all may handle, none can flatter.

     Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows,
     That not the wisest mortal knows
     What fortune may befall his nose.

     Show me the brightest Irish toast,
     Who from her lover e'er could boast
     Above a song or two at most:

     For thee three poets now are drudging all,
     To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all,
     Both of the picture and original.

     Thy nose's length and fame extend
     So far, dear Dan, that every friend
     Tries who shall have it by the end.

     And future poets, as they rise,
     Shall read with envy and surprise
     Thy nose outshining Celia's eyes.

     JON. SWIFT.

       My verse little better you'll find than my face is;
       A word to the wise—ut pictura poesis.

     Three merry lads, with envy stung,
     Because Dan's face is better hung,
     Combined in verse to rhyme it down,
     And in its place set up their own;
     As if they'd run it down much better
     By number of their feet in metre.
     Or that its red did cause their spite,
     Which made them draw in black and white.
     Be that as 'twill, this is most true,
     They were inspired by what they drew.
     Let then such critics know, my face
     Gives them their comeliness and grace:
     While every line of face does bring
     A line of grace to what they sing.
     But yet, methinks, though with disgrace
     Both to the picture and the face,
     I should name them who do rehearse
     The story of the picture farce;
     The squire, in French as hard as stone,
     Or strong as rock, that's all as one,
     On face on cards is very brisk, sirs,
     Because on them you play at whisk, sirs.
     But much I wonder, why my crany
     Should envied be by De-el-any:
     And yet much more, that half-namesake
     Should join a party in the freak.
     For sure I am it was not safe
     Thus to abuse his better half,
     As I shall prove you, Dan, to be,
     Divisim and conjunctively.
     For if Dan love not Sherry, can
     Sherry be anything to Dan?
     This is the case whene'er you see
     Dan makes nothing of Sherry;
     Or should Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en
     Then Dan would be poor Sherridane
     'Tis hard then he should be decried
     By Dan, with Sherry by his side.
     But, if the case must be so hard,
     That faces suffer by a card,
     Let critics censure, what care I?
     Backbiters only we defy,
     Faces are free from injury.

     You say your face is better hung
     Than ours—by what? by nose or tongue?
     In not explaining you are wrong
           to us, sir.

     Because we thus must state the case,
     That you have got a hanging face,
     Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace
           of noose, sir.

     But yet be not cast down: I see
     A weaver will your hangman be:
     You'll only hang in tapestry
           with many;

     And then the ladies, I suppose,
     Will praise your longitude of nose,
     For latent charms within your clothes,
           dear Danny.

     Thus will the fair of every age
     From all parts make their pilgrimage,
     Worship thy nose with pious rage
           of love, sir:

     All their religion will be spent
     About thy woven monument,
     And not one orison be sent
           to Jove, sir.

     You the famed idol will become,
     As gardens graced in ancient Rome,
     By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom
           of night.[1]

     O happy Dan! thrice happy sure!
     Thy fame for ever shall endure,
     Who after death can love secure
           at sight.

     So far I thought it was my duty
     To dwell upon thy boasted beauty;
     Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye
           in answer

     To that part where you carry on
     This paradox, that rock and stone
     In your opinion, are all one:
           How can, sir,

     A man of reasoning so profound
     So stupidly be run a-ground,
     As things so different to confound
           t'our senses?

     Except you judged them by the knock
     Of near an equal hardy block;
     Such an experimental stroke
           convinces.

     Then might you be, by dint of reason,
     A proper judge on this occasion;
     'Gainst feeling there's no disputation,
           is granted:

     Therefore to thy superior wit,
     Who made the trial, we submit;
     Thy head to prove the truth of it
           we wanted.

     In one assertion you're to blame,
     Where Dan and Sherry's made the same,
     Endeavouring to have your name
           refined, sir:

     You'll see most grossly you mistook,
     If you consult your spelling-book,
     (The better half you say you took,)
           you'll find, sir,

     S, H, E, she—and R, I, ri,
     Both put together make Sherry;
     D, A, N, Dan—makes up the three
           syllables;

     Dan is but one, and Sherry two,
     Then, sir, your choice will never do;
     Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you
           the tables.

     [Footnote 1: Priapus, the god of procreation and fertility, both human
     and agricultural, whose statues, painted red, were placed in gardens.
     Confer Horat., Sat. I, viii, 1-8; Virg., "Georg.", iv, 110-11. In India,
     the same deity is to be seen in retired parts of the gardens, as he is
     described by Horace—"ruber porrectus ab inguine palus"—and where he is
     worshipped by the matrons for the same reason.—W. E. B.]

     Assist me, my Muse, while I labour to limn him.
     Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae persimilem.     You look and you write with so different a grace,
     That I envy your verse, though I did not your face.
     And to him that thinks rightly, there's reason enough,
     'Cause one is as smooth as the other is rough.
       But much I'm amazed you should think my design
     Was to rhyme down your nose, or your harlequin grin,
     Which you yourself wonder the de'el should malign.
     And if 'tis so strange, that your monstership's crany
     Should be envied by him, much less by Delany;
     Though I own to you, when I consider it stricter,
     I envy the painter, although not the picture.
     And justly she's envied, since a fiend of Hell
     Was never drawn right but by her and Raphael.
       Next, as to the charge, which you tell us is true,
     That we were inspired by the subject we drew.
     Inspired we were, and well, sir, you knew it;
     Yet not by your nose, but the fair one that drew it;
     Had your nose been the Muse, we had ne'er been inspired,
     Though perhaps it might justly 've been said we were fired,
       As to the division of words in your staves,
     Like my countryman's horn-comb, into three halves,
     I meddle not with 't, but presume to make merry,
     You call'd Dan one half, and t'other half Sherry:
     Now if Dan's a half, as you call't o'er and o'er,
     Then it can't be denied that Sherry's two more.
     For pray give me leave to say, sir, for all you,
     That Sherry's at least of double the value.
     But perhaps, sir, you did it to fill up the verse;
     So crowds in a concert (like actors in farce)
     Play two parts in one, when scrapers are scarce.
     But be that as 'twill, you'll know more anon, sir,
     When Sheridan sends to merry Dan answer.

     Three merry lads you own we are;
     'Tis very true, and free from care:
     But envious we cannot bear,
           believe, sir:

     For, were all forms of beauty thine,
     Were you like Nereus soft and fine,
     We should not in the least repine,
           or grieve, sir.

     Then know from us, most beauteous Dan,
     That roughness best becomes a man;
     'Tis women should be pale, and wan,
           and taper;

     And all your trifling beaux and fops,
     Who comb their brows, and sleek their chops,
     Are but the offspring of toy-shops,
           mere vapour.

     We know your morning hours you pass
     To cull and gather out a face;
     Is this the way you take your glass?
           Forbear it:

     Those loads of paint upon your toilet
     Will never mend your face, but spoil it,
     It looks as if you did parboil it:
           Drink claret.

     Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean,
     That they're like Cynthia in the wane,
     Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean,
           or pullet:

     See what by drinking you have done:
     You've made your phiz a skeleton,
     From the long distance of your crown,
           t' your gullet.

     Wearied with saying grace and prayer,
     I hasten'd down to country air,
     To read your answer, and prepare
           reply to't:

     But your fair lines so grossly flatter,
     Pray do they praise me or bespatter?
     I must suspect you mean the latter—
           Ah! slyboot!

     It must be so! what else, alas!
     Can mean by culling of a face,
     And all that stuff of toilet, glass,
           and box-comb?

     But be't as 'twill, this you must grant,
     That you're a daub, whilst I but paint;
     Then which of us two is the quaint-
           er coxcomb?

     I value not your jokes of noose,
     Your gibes and all your foul abuse,
     More than the dirt beneath my shoes,
           nor fear it.

     Yet one thing vexes me, I own,
     Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone;
     To be called lean by a skeleton,
           who'd bear it?

     'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends,
     You seem to praise, to make amends,
     And yet, before your stanza ends,
           you flout me,

     'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes,
     For every one that knows me, knows
     That I have nothing like my nose
           about me:

     I pass now where you fleer and laugh,
     'Cause I call Dan my better half!
     O there you think you have me safe!
           But hold, sir;

     Is not a penny often found
     To be much greater than a pound!
     By your good leave, my most profound
           and bold sir,
     Dan's noble metal, Sherry base;
     So Dan's the better, though the less,
     An ounce of golds worth ten of brass,
           dull pedant!

     As to your spelling, let me see,
     If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry,
     Good spelling-master: your crany
           has lead in't.

     Three days for answer I have waited,
     I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated
     And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated
           poetaster?

     Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose
     Of thy dimension's fit for prose;
     But every one that knows Dan, knows
           thy master.

     Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines,
     And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1]
     Thy fame, thy genius, now declines,
           proud boaster.

     I hear with some concern your roar
     And flying think to quit the score,
     By clapping billets on your door
           and posts, sir.

     Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant,
     I'm grieved to hear your banishment,
     But pleased to find you do relent
           and cry on.

     I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff,
     But now I'll secret keep your stuff;
     For know, prostration is enough
           to th' lion.

     [Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.—F.]

               Miserae cognosce prooemia rixae,
       Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum.[1]

         Poor Sherry, inglorious,
         To Dan the victorious,
         Presents, as 'tis fitting,
         Petition and greeting.

     To you, victorious and brave,
     Your now subdued and suppliant slave
       Most humbly sues for pardon;
     Who when I fought still cut me down,
     And when I vanquish'd, fled the town
       Pursued and laid me hard on.

     Now lowly crouch'd, I cry peccavi,
     And prostrate, supplicate pour ma vie;
       Your mercy I rely on;
     For you my conqueror and my king,
     In pardoning, as in punishing,
       Will show yourself a lion.

     Alas! sir, I had no design,
     But was unwarily drawn in;
       For spite I ne'er had any;
     'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name;
     The de'il too that owed me a shame,
       The devil and Delany;

     They tempted me t' attack your highness,
     And then, with wonted wile and slyness,
       They left me in the lurch:
     Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween,
     I've nothing left to vent my spleen
       But ferula and birch:

     And they, alas! yield small relief,
     Seem rather to renew my grief,
       My wounds bleed all anew:
     For every stroke goes to my heart
     And at each lash I feel the smart
       Of lash laid on by you.

     [Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.—W. E. B.]

     The suit which humbly you have made
     Is fully and maturely weigh'd;
       And as 'tis your petition,
     I do forgive, for well I know,
     Since you're so bruised, another blow
       Would break the head of Priscian.[1]

     'Tis not my purpose or intent
     That you should suffer banishment;
       I pardon, now you've courted;
     And yet I fear this clemency
     Will come too late to profit thee,
       For you're with grief transported.

     However, this I do command,
     That you your birch do take in hand,
       Read concord and syntax on;
     The bays, your own, are only mine,
     Do you then still your nouns decline,
       Since you've declined Dan Jackson.

     [Footnote 1: The Roman grammarian, who flourished about A.D. 450, and has
     left a work entitled "Commentariorum grammaticorum Libri
     xviii."—W. E. B.]

     MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN,

       —mediocribus esse poetis
       Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnae.[1]

     To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace's Art of
     Poetry, which I have chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my
     speech, you will find they fall naturally into this sense:

       For poets who can't tell [high] rocks from stones,
       The rope, the hangman, and the gallows groans.

     I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parnassus, commonly called the
     Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream,
     and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the
     shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon
     which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was
     made:

     You'll have a gosling, call it Dan,
     And do not make your goose a swan.
     'Tis true, because the God of Wit
     To get him in that shape thought fit,
     He'll have some glowworm sparks of it.
     Venture you may to turn him loose,
     But let it be to another goose.
     The time will come, the fatal time,
     When he shall dare a swan to rhyme;
     The tow'ring swan comes sousing down,
     And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown.
     From that sad time, and sad disaster,
     He'll be a lame, crack'd poetaster.
     At length for stealing rhymes and triplets,
     He'll be content to hang in giblets.

     You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and literally come to pass; for
     it was my misfortune to engage with that Pindar of the times, Tom
     Sheridan, who did so confound me by sousing on my crown, and did so
     batter my pinions, that I was forced to make use of borrowed wings,
     though my false accusers have deposed that I stole my feathers from
     Hopkins, Sternhold, Silvester, Ogilby, Durfey, etc., for which I now
     forgive them and all the world. I die a poet; and this ladder shall be my
     Gradus ad Parnassum; and I hope the critics will have mercy on my works.

        Then lo, I mount as slowly as I sung,
        And then I'll make a line for every rung;[2]
        There's nine, I see,—the Muses, too, are nine.
        Who would refuse to die a death like mine!
     1. Thou first rung, Clio, celebrate my name;
     2. Euterp, in tragic numbers do the same.
     3. This rung, I see, Terpsichore's thy flute;
     4. Erato, sing me to the Gods; ah, do't:
     5. Thalia, don't make me a comedy;
     6. Urania, raise me tow'rds the starry sky:
     7. Calliope, to ballad-strains descend,
     8. And Polyhymnia, tune them for your friend;
     9. So shall Melpomene mourn my fatal end.
                       POOR DAN JACKSON.

     [Footnote 1: A variation from:
              "mediocribus esse poetis
       Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae."
     Epist. ad Pisones.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder;
     still used in every part of Ireland.—Scott.]