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

     DEAR DAN,

     Here I return my trust, nor ask
       One penny for remittance;
     If I have well perform'd my task,
       Pray send me an acquittance.

     Too long I bore this weighty pack,
       As Hercules the sky;
     Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back,
       Let me be stander-by.

     Not all the witty things you speak
       In compass of a day,
     Not half the puns you make a-week,
       Should bribe his longer stay.

     With me you left him out at nurse,
       Yet are you not my debtor;
     For, as he hardly can be worse,
       I ne'er could make him better.

     He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes,
       Just as he did before;
     And, when he's lash'd a hundred times,
       He rhymes and puns the more.

     When rods are laid on school-boys' bums,
       The more they frisk and skip:
     The school-boys' top but louder hums
       The more they use the whip.

     Thus, a lean beast beneath a load
       (A beast of Irish breed)
     Will, in a tedious dirty road,
       Outgo the prancing steed.

     You knock him down and down in vain,
       And lay him flat before ye,
     For soon as he gets up again,
       He'll strut, and cry, Victoria!

     At every stroke of mine, he fell,
       'Tis true he roar'd and cried;
     But his impenetrable shell
       Could feel no harm beside.

     The tortoise thus, with motion slow,
       Will clamber up a wall;
     Yet, senseless to the hardest blow,
       Gets nothing but a fall.

     Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I,
       Attack his pericrany?
     And, since it is in vain to try,
       We'll send him to Delany.

     POSTSCRIPT

     Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry,
     Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery,
     But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says,
     He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses,
     For omitting the first (where I make a comparison,
     With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison)
     Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is
     A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise.
     So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul
     This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal?
     And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
     (For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.

     A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate,
     The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target;
     Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could,
     But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood;
     While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him,
     While t'other, enraged that he could not once prick him,
     Cried, "Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore,
     Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!"
       Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man,
     Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan;
     For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough,
     The devil himself can't get through his buff.
     Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard,
     Not only to make him your shield, but your vizard;
     And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar,
     Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore.
     Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it,
     You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet;
     With the din of which tube my head you so bother,
     That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other.

     You made me in your last a goose;
       I lay my life on't you are wrong,
     To raise me by such foul abuse;
       My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue;
     And slit, just like a bird will chatter,
       And like a bird do something more;
     When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter,
       I'll change you to a black-a-moor.

     I'll write while I have half an eye in my head;
     I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead.
     Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave,
     I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1]

     [Footnote 1; See post, p. 351.—W. E. B.]

     I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean,
     To see you live, so often slain.
     My arrows fly and fly in vain,
     But still I try and try again.
     I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein;
     Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain,
     Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean;
     I will not tell, because it's plain.
     Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane;
     If so, from pen and ink refrain.
     Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain
     For her and you; your life's a scene
     Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane,
     Enough to crack the strongest brain.
     Now to conclude, I do remain,
     Your honest friend,    TOM SHERIDAN.

     Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance,
     Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance.
     You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer;
     Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer?
     If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye,
     And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury,
     I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk;
     I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk:
     Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding,
     I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.

     Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head!
     You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.
     I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth;
     I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth.
     Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame
     For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name.
     Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin;
     And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin:
     He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole
     body:
     My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy.
     And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse,
     Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose:
     Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October,
     And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober:
     Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge,
     Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked
     college.
     You say you will eat grass on his grave:[1] a Christian eat grass!
     Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass:
     But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye;
     Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true
     story:
     And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I?
     And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary.
     Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil:
     I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil.
     Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here;
     I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year.
     And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking:
     Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;)
     My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school—
     I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool.
     Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale
     He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail.
     And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter;
     For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better.
     Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from
     prayers:
     And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs;
     Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand;
     And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command,
     MARY.

     [Footnote 1: See ante, p. 349.—W.E.B.]

     Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw:
     In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw;
     A temper the devil himself could not bridle;
     Impertinent mixture of busy and idle;
     As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed;
     She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit;
     A housewife in bed, at table a slattern;
     For all an example, for no one a pattern.
     Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3] and Merry Dan,[4]
     Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.]

     [Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.]

     [Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.]

     [Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.]

     Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise
     Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes,
     Like ghost I glide along your floor,
     And softly shut the parlour door:
     For, should I break your sweet repose,
     Who knows what money you might lose:
     Since oftentimes it has been found,
     A dream has given ten thousand pound?
     Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on,
     And all you get shall be your own;
     Provided you to this agree,
     That all you lose belongs to me.

     So, about twelve at night, the punk
     Steals from the cully when he's drunk:
     Nor is contented with a treat,
     Without her privilege to cheat:
     Nor can I the least difference find,
     But that you left no clap behind.
     But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye,
     My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha'penny
     To eat my meat and drink my medlicot,
     And then to give me such a deadly cut—
     But 'tis observed, that men in gowns
     Are most inclined to plunder crowns.
     Could you but change a crown as easy
     As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye!
     I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine's
     Knew how to set you better patterns;
     For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3]
     And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em.

     Saturday night.

     [Footnote 1: A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin,
     comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman,
     for whom the Dean had a great esteem.—Scott.]

     AS in a silent night a lonely swain,
     'Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain,
     To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes,
     And every look finds out a new surprise;
     So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view
     Our lower sphere made more serene by you.
     O! could such light in my dark bosom shine,
     What life, what vigour, should adorn each line!
     Beauty and virtue should be all my theme,
     And Venus brighten my poetic flame.
     The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one
     Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun;
     Majestic light his feeble art defies,
     And for presuming, robs him of his eyes.
     Then blame your power, that my inferior lays
     Sink far below your too exalted praise:
     Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain;
     No, we're sincere,—to flatter you were vain.
     You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied,
     And all perfections but your beauties hide.
     Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind,
     Nor frown on those you see so well inclined
     To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then
     Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.

     Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell
     Have we not play'd our parts extremely well?
     We think we did, but if you do complain,
     We're all content to act the play again:
     'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most,
     And time well spent in school cannot be lost.
     But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above?
     We guess'd long since you all desired to move:
     But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir,
     Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1]
     Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play;
     He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay.
     Though this new method may provoke your laughter,
     To act plays first, and understand them after;
     We do not care, for we will have our humour,
     And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more.
     Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge;
     How much they've read, I leave you all to judge.

     [Footnote 1: The vulgar pronunciation of the word construe is here
     intended.—W. E. B.]

     A parody on the popular song beginning,
     "My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent."

     My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent,
     When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went;
     For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest;
     Was ever a toper so merrily blest?
     But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,
     Because I must go to my wife back to town;
     To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear,"
     And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer.
       My daughter I ever was pleased to see
     Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee:
     My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said,
     Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head:
     But now out of humour, I with a sour look,
     Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book;
     And I'll give her another; for why should she play,
     Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away?
       Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become,
     That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum?
     Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile,
     While we sit carousing and drinking the while?
     Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done,
     Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone.
     Then since it is so, bring me here a supply;
     Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.

     How few can be of grandeur sure!
     The high may fall, the rich be poor.
     The only favourite at court,
     To-morrow may be Fortune's sport;
     For all her pleasure and her aim
     Is to destroy both power and fame.
       Of this the Dean is an example,
     No instance is more plain and ample.
     The world did never yet produce,
     For courts a man of greater use.
     Nor has the world supplied as yet,
     With more vivacity and wit;
     Merry alternately and wise,
     To please the statesman, and advise.
     Through all the last and glorious reign,
     Was nothing done without the Dean;
     The courtier's prop, the nation's pride;
     But now, alas! he's thrown aside;
     He's quite forgot, and so's the queen,
     As if they both had never been.
     To see him now a mountaineer!
     Oh! what a mighty fall is here!
     From settling governments and thrones,
     To splitting rocks, and piling stones.
     Instead of Bolingbroke and Anna,
     Shane Tunnally, and Bryan Granna,
     Oxford and Ormond he supplies,
     In every Irish Teague he spies:
     So far forgetting his old station,
     He seems to like their conversation,
     Conforming to the tatter'd rabble,
     He learns their Irish tongue to gabble;
     And, what our anger more provokes,
     He's pleased with their insipid jokes;
     Then turns and asks them who do lack a
     Good plug, or pipefull of tobacco.
     All cry they want, to every man
     He gives, extravagant, a span.
     Thus are they grown more fond than ever,
     And he is highly in their favour.
       Bright Stella, Quilca's greatest pride,
     For them he scorns and lays aside;
     And Sheridan is left alone
     All day, to gape, and stretch, and groan;
     While grumbling, poor, complaining Dingley,
     Is left to care and trouble singly.
     All o'er the mountains spreads the rumour,
     Both of his bounty and good humour;
     So that each shepherdess and swain
     Comes flocking here to see the Dean.
     All spread around the land, you'd swear
     That every day we kept a fair.
     My fields are brought to such a pass,
     I have not left a blade of grass;
     That all my wethers and my beeves
     Are slighted by the very thieves.
       At night right loath to quit the park,
     His work just ended by the dark,
     With all his pioneers he comes,
     To make more work for whisk and brooms.
     Then seated in an elbow-chair,
     To take a nap he does prepare;
     While two fair damsels from the lawns,
     Lull him asleep with soft cronawns.
       Thus are his days in delving spent,
     His nights in music and content;
     He seems to gain by his distress,
     His friends are more, his honours less.

     Let me thy properties explain:
     A rotten cabin, dropping rain:
     Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke;
     Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
     Here elements have lost their uses,
     Air ripens not, nor earth produces:
     In vain we make poor Sheelah[1] toil,
     Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
     Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
     The goddess Want, in triumph reigns;
     And her chief officers of state,
     Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.

     Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
     Not seen by our betters.

     A companion with news; a great want of shoes;
     Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews;
     Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay;
     December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.

     ——quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.[1]

     This description of a scholar's room in Trinity College, Dublin, was
     found among Mr. Smith's papers. It is not in the Dean's hand, but seems
     to have been the production of Sheridan.

     Imprimis, there's a table blotted,
     A tatter'd hanging all bespotted.
     A bed of flocks, as I may rank it,
     Reduced to rug and half a blanket.
     A tinder box without a flint,
     An oaken desk with nothing in't;
     A pair of tongs bought from a broker,
     A fender and a rusty poker;
     A penny pot and basin, this
     Design'd for water, that for piss;
     A broken-winded pair of bellows,
     Two knives and forks, but neither fellows.
     Item, a surplice, not unmeeting,
     Either for table-cloth, or sheeting;
     There is likewise a pair of breeches,
     But patch'd, and fallen in the stitches,
     Hung up in study very little,
     Plaster'd with cobweb and spittle,
     An airy prospect all so pleasing,
     From my light window without glazing,
     A trencher and a College bottle,
     Piled up on Locke and Aristotle.
     A prayer-book, which he seldom handles
     A save-all and two farthing candles.
     A smutty ballad, musty libel,
     A Burgersdicius[2] and a Bible.
     The C****[3] Seasons and the Senses
     By Overton, to save expenses.
     Item, (if I am not much mistaken,)
     A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon.
     A candlestick without a snuffer,
     Whereby his fingers often suffer.
     Two odd old shoes I should not skip here,
     Each strapless serves instead of slippers,
     And chairs a couple, I forgot 'em,
     But each of them without a bottom.
     Thus I in rhyme have comprehended
     His goods, and so my schedule's ended.

     [Footnote 1: Virg., "Aen.," ii, 5.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Francis Burgersdicius, author of "An Argument to prove that
     the 39th section of the Lth chapter of the Statutes given by Queen
     Elizabeth to the University of Cambridge includes the whole Statutes of
     that University, with an answer to the Argument and the Author's reply."
     London, 1727. He was one of those logicians that Swift so
     disliked.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Illegible. John Overton, 1640-1708, a dealer in
     mezzotints.—W. E. B.]

     Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine,
     Whose verses far his rays outshine,
       Look down upon your quondam foe;
     O! let me never write again,
     If e'er I disoblige you, Dean,
       Should you compassion show.

     Take those iambics which I wrote,
     When anger made me piping hot,
       And give them to your cook,
     To singe your fowl, or save your paste
     The next time when you have a feast;
       They'll save you many a book.

     To burn them, you are not content;
     I give you then my free consent,
       To sink them in the harbour;
     If not, they'll serve to set off blocks,
     To roll on pipes, and twist in locks;
       So give them to your barber.

     Or, when you next your physic take,
     I must entreat you then to make
       A proper application;
     'Tis what I've done myself before,
     With Dan's fine thoughts and many more,
       Who gave me provocation.

     What cannot mighty anger do?
     It makes the weak the strong pursue,
       A goose attack a swan;
     It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
     Her husband's hands and face assail,
       While he's no longer man.

     Though some, we find, are more discreet,
     Before the world are wondrous sweet,
       And let their husbands hector:
     But when the world's asleep, they wake,
     That is the time they choose to speak:
       Witness the curtain lecture.

     Such was the case with you, I find:
     All day you could conceal your mind;
       But when St. Patrick's chimes
     Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse,
     When I engaged for better for worse,)
       You scolded with your rhymes.

     Have done! have done! I quit the field,
     To you as to my wife, I yield:
       As she must wear the breeches:
     So shall you wear the laurel crown,
     Win it and wear it, 'tis your own;
       The poet's only riches.

     [Footnote 1: Recantation.—W. E. B.]

     You will excuse me, I suppose,
     For sending rhyme instead of prose.
     Because hot weather makes me lazy,
     To write in metre is more easy.
       While you are trudging London town,
     I'm strolling Dublin up and down;
     While you converse with lords and dukes,
     I have their betters here, my books:
     Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease,
     I choose companions as I please.
     I'd rather have one single shelf
     Than all my friends, except yourself;
     For, after all that can be said,
     Our best acquaintance are the dead.
     While you're in raptures with Faustina;[1]
     I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.
     While you are starving there in state,
     I'm cramming here with butchers' meat.
     You say, when with those lords you dine,
     They treat you with the best of wine,
     Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
     Why, so can we, as well as they.
     No reason then, my dear good Dean,
     But you should travel home again.
     What though you mayn't in Ireland hope
     To find such folk as Gay and Pope;
     If you with rhymers here would share
     But half the wit that you can spare,
     I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,
     You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.
       Our weathers good, our sky is clear;
     We've every joy, if you were here;
     So lofty and so bright a sky
     Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
     I think it fit to let you know,
     This week I shall to Quilca go;
     To see M'Faden's horny brothers
     First suck, and after bull their mothers;
     To see, alas! my wither'd trees!
     To see what all the country sees!
     My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves,
     My servants such a pack of thieves;
     My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks,
     My house in common to all folks,
     No cabbage for a single snail,
     My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail;
     My no green peas, my few green sprouts;
     My mother always in the pouts;
     My horses rid, or gone astray;
     My fish all stolen or run away;
     My mutton lean, my pullets old,
     My poultry starved, the corn all sold.
     A man come now from Quilca says,
     "They've[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;"
     But, what must fret and vex me more,
     He says, "They stole the keys before.
     They've stol'n the knives from all the forks;
     And half the cows from half the sturks."
     Nay more, the fellow swears and vows,
     "They've stol'n the sturks from half the cows:"
     With many more accounts of woe,
     Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go:
     'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear,
     Because I've more vexation here.

     [Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.—Dublin
     Edition.]

     [Footnote 2: They is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for
     whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is,
     "They have stolen it." Dublin Edition.—W. E. B.]

     I've sent to the ladies this morning to warn 'em,
     To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1]
     Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship
     Can take up with me, and my friend Stella's leanship.[2]
     I've got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret,
     That's just disengaged from the toils of a net:
     An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted,
     With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted:
     Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies,
     Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes;
     And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died,
     And now they're to lie in some crumbs that are fried.
     My wine will inspire you with joy and delight,
     'Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright;
     An emblem of one that you love, I suppose,
     Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4]
     Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope,
     We'll wean you from sighing for England I hope;
     When we are together there's nothing that is dull,
     There's nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall.
     We've sworn to make out an agreeable feast,
     Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste.

     Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers;
     you have a pencil in your pocket.

     [Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country
     house.]

     [Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health.
     She died the January following.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a
     fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, "Metam.,"
     iii, 407.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable
     women in the world.—F.]

     N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR.
     SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728

     Fair ladies, number five,
       Who in your merry freaks,
     With little Tom contrive
       To feast on ale and steaks;

     While he sits by a-grinning,
       To see you safe in Sot's Hole,
     Set up with greasy linen,
       And neither mugs nor pots whole;

     Alas! I never thought
       A priest would please your palate;
     Besides, I'll hold a groat
       He'll put you in a ballad;

     Where I shall see your faces,
       On paper daub'd so foul,
     They'll be no more like graces,
       Than Venus like an owl.

     And we shall take you rather
       To be a midnight pack
     Of witches met together,
       With Beelzebub in black.

     It fills my heart with woe,
       To think such ladies fine
     Should be reduced so low,
       To treat a dull divine.

     Be by a parson cheated!
       Had you been cunning stagers,
     You might yourselves be treated
       By captains and by majors.

     See how corruption grows,
       While mothers, daughters, aunts,
     Instead of powder'd beaux,
       From pulpits choose gallants.

     If we, who wear our wigs
       With fantail and with snake,
     Are bubbled thus by prigs;
       Z——ds! who would be a rake?

     Had I a heart to fight,
       I'd knock the Doctor down;
     Or could I read or write,
       Egad! I'd wear a gown.

     Then leave him to his birch;[3]
       And at the Rose on Sunday,
     The parson safe at church,
       I'll treat you with burgundy.

     [Footnote 1: An ale-house in Dublin, famous for
     beef-steaks.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: Doctor Thomas Sheridan.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.—F.]

     You little scribbling beau,
       What demon made you write?
     Because to write you know
       As much as you can fight.

     For compliment so scurvy,
       I wish we had you here;
     We'd turn you topsy-turvy
       Into a mug of beer.

     You thought to make a farce on
       The man and place we chose;
     We're sure a single parson
       Is worth a hundred beaux.

     And you would make us vassals,
       Good Mr. Wig and Wings,
     To silver clocks and tassels;
       You would, you Thing of Things!

     Because around your cane
       A ring of diamonds is set;
     And you, in some by-lane,
       Have gain'd a paltry grisette;

     Shall we, of sense refined,
       Your trifling nonsense bear,
     As noisy as the wind,
       As empty as the air?

     We hate your empty prattle;
       And vow and swear 'tis true,
     There's more in one child's rattle,
       Than twenty fops like you.

     Why, how now, dapper black!
       I smell your gown and cassock,
     As strong upon your back,
       As Tisdall[1] smells of a sock.

     To write such scurvy stuff!
       Fine ladies never do't;
     I know you well enough,
       And eke your cloven foot.

     Fine ladies, when they write,
       Nor scold, nor keep a splutter:
     Their verses give delight,
       As soft and sweet as butter.

     But Satan never saw
       Such haggard lines as these:
     They stick athwart my maw,
       As bad as Suffolk cheese.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland,
     who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson. He is several times mentioned
     in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall
     or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the
     Journal.—W. E. B.]

     All you that would refine your blood,
       As pure as famed Llewellyn,
     By waters clear, come every year
       To drink at Ballyspellin.

     Though pox or itch your skins enrich
       With rubies past the telling,
     'Twill clear your skin before you've been
       A month at Ballyspellin.

     If lady's cheek be green as leek
       When she comes from her dwelling,
     The kindling rose within it glows
       When she's at Ballyspellin.

     The sooty brown, who comes from town,
       Grows here as fair as Helen;
     Then back she goes, to kill the beaux,
       By dint of Ballyspellin.

     Our ladies are as fresh and fair
       As Rose,[2] or bright Dunkelling:
     And Mars might make a fair mistake,
       Were he at Ballyspellin.

     We men submit as they think fit,
       And here is no rebelling:
     The reason's plain; the ladies reign,
       They're queens at Ballyspellin.

     By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms,
       They have the way of quelling
     Such desperate foes as dare oppose
       Their power at Ballyspellin.

     Cold water turns to fire, and burns
       I know, because I fell in
     A stream, which came from one bright dame
       Who drank at Ballyspellin.

     Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,
       To bring their Anne or Nell in,
     With so much grace, I'm sure no place
       Can vie with Ballyspellin.

     No politics, no subtle tricks,
       No man his country selling:
     We eat, we drink; we never think
       Of these at Ballyspellin.

     The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind,
       Do all come here pell-mell in;
     And they are sure to work their cure
       By drinking Ballyspellin.

     Though dropsy fills you to the gills,
       From chin to toe though swelling,
     Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
       A cure at Ballyspellin.

     Death throws no darts through all these parts,
       No sextons here are knelling;
     Come, judge and try, you'll never die,
       But live at Ballyspellin.

     Except you feel darts tipp'd with steel,
       Which here are every belle in:
     When from their eyes sweet ruin flies,
       We die at Ballyspellin.

     Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care,
       Your sight, your taste, your smelling,
     Your ears, your touch, transported much
       Each day at Ballyspellin.

     Within this ground we all sleep sound,
       No noisy dogs a-yelling;
     Except you wake, for Celia's sake,
       All night at Ballyspellin.

     There all you see, both he and she,
       No lady keeps her cell in;
     But all partake the mirth we make,
       Who drink at Ballyspellin.

     My rhymes are gone; I think I've none,
       Unless I should bring Hell in;
     But, since I'm here to Heaven so near,
       I can't at Ballyspellin!

     [Footnote 1: A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, "whither Sheridan
     had gone to drink the waters with a new favourite lady." See note to the
     "Answer," post, p. 371.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Ross.—Dublin Edition.]