Jonathan Swift

Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town? By my soul there's bad news, for the gold she was pull'd down, The gold she was pull'd down, of that I'm very sure,

WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699 My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal, Delivers cards about,

[1] WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702 I

WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731 Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane, For whom no shepherd sighs in vain;

The immediate provocation to this fierce satire upon the Irish Parliament was the introduction of a Bill to put an end to the tithe on pasturage, called agistment, and thus to free the landlords from a legal payment, with severe loss to the Church. As I stroll the city, oft I See a building large and lofty,

Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed, Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head: And since our good queen to the wise is so just,

CHARIOT My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, To dispatch in an hour some visits a score;

[1] WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238 Careful observers may foretell the hour,

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1] Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.

"Sunt quibus in Satir'," etc. WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729 DR. SWIFT

M. I own, 'tis not my bread and butter, But prithee, Tim, why all this clutter?

One time a mighty plague did pester All beasts domestic and sylvester, The doctors all in concert join'd,

But he by bawling news about, And aptly using brush and clout, A justice of the peace became,

ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK MAKER.[1] 1708 Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest, Though we all took it for a jest:

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;

SIR, Pray discruciate what follows. The dullest beast, and gentleman's liquor,

Deluded mortals, whom the great Choose for companions t'te-'-t'te; Who at their dinners, en famille,

WRITTEN AT LONDON By poets we are well assured That love, alas! can ne'er be cured;

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: I a slave in thy dominions;

Deprived of root, and branch and rind, Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power,

WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE Jason, the valiant prince of Greece, From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece;

Ye people of Ireland, both country and city, Come listen with patience, and hear out my ditty: At this time I'll choose to be wiser than witty.

1723-4 Returning Janus[2] now prepares, For Bec, a new supply of cares,

IN THE PERSON OF A LADY IN THE NORTH [l] 1730 Resolved my gratitude to show, Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe,

WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, WHO DIED THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1] This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the following explanatory introduction: Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer there. It is within a mile of Richmond.

DERMOT, SHEELAH A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight; Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1]

High Church is undone, As sure as a gun, For old Peter Patch is departed;

Not asking or expecting aught, One day I went to view the court, Unbent and free from care or thought,

The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not allowing you to act, unless you would pay him '300 per annum; upon which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers. The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, etc. to act in. Our set of strollers, wandering up and down,

To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note, Since cruel fate has sunk our Justice Boat; Why should he sink, where nothing seem'd to press

TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724 NELL scolded in so loud a din, That Will durst hardly venture in:

Cut the name of the man [1] who his mistress denied, And let the first of it be only applied To join with the prophet[2] who David did chide;

The Scottish hinds, too poor to house In frosty nights their starving cows, While not a blade of grass or hay

I like your collyrium, Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye 'um, 'Twill gain you a great reputation;

I'm wealthy and poor, I'm empty and full, I'm humble and proud,

His Grace! impossible! what, dead! Of old age too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall,

His Grace! impossible! what, dead! Of old age too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall,

When foes are o'ercome, we preserve them from slaughter, To be hewers of wood, and drawers of water. Now, although to draw water is not very good,

As when of old some sorceress threw O'er the moon's face a sable hue, To drive unseen her magic chair,

A man with expense and infinite toil, By digging and dunging, ennobled his soil; There fruits of the best your taste did invite,

[1]    Scene, the Royal Exchange CORYDON

"Qui color ater erat, nunc est contrarius atro."[1] With singing of ballads, and crying of news, With whitening of buckles, and blacking of shoes,

While the king and his ministers keep such a pother, And all about changing one whore for another, Think I to myself, what need all this strife,

Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales; Gently fill the swelling sails. Neptune, with thy trident long,

Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born,

The furniture that best doth please St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these: The knife and fork with which I eat;

Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded sore eye, And the more I consider your case, still the more I Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye.

As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other. - Scott. A lady, wise as well as fair, Whose conscience always was her care,

Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young,

Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound

The scriptures affirm (as I heard in my youth, For indeed I ne'er read them, to speak for once truth) That death is the wages of sin, but the just

In your indignation what mercy appears, While Jonathan's threaten'd with loss of his ears; For who would not think it a much better choice,

1729[1] (Verses Written During Lord Carteret's Administration Of Ireland) Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare, Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat.

How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train, To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2] Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere,

FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY As Jove will not attend on less, When things of more importance press:

Our brethren of England, who love us so dear, And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, (A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year,

AGAINST WOOD'S HALFPENCE To the tune of "London is a fine town," & c. O Dublin is a fine town

An orator dismal of Nottinghamshire, Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire, Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place,

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by 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,

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]

1720-21 To the tune of "Packington's Pound." Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes,

Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call, To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all; Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care,

Louis the living learned fed, And raised the scientific head; Our frugal queen, to save her meat,

That love is the devil, I'll prove when required; Those rhymers abundantly show it: They swear that they all by love are inspired,

By Satan taught, all conjurors know Your mistress in a glass to show, And you can do as much:

My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes; As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies!

Thanks to my stars, I once can see A window here from scribbling free! Here no conceited coxcombs pass,

The church and clergy here, no doubt, Are very near a-kin; Both weather-beaten are without,

My landlord is civil, But dear as the d - l: Your pockets grow empty

O Neptune! Neptune! must I still Be here detain'd against my will? Is this your justice, when I'm come

1730 In ancient times, the wise were able In proper terms to write a fable:

Femineo generi tribuantur. The Muses, whom the richest silks array, Refuse to fling their shining gowns away;

I In pity to the empty'ng Town, Some God May Fair invented,

Your house of hair, and lady's hand, At first did put me to a stand. I have it now - 'tis plain enough -

WITH half an eye your riddle I spy, I observe your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket, And whatever passes is strain'd through glasses.

We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature, May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.

To The Honourable Mrs. Finch,[1] Under Her Name Of Ardelia Phoebus, now short'ning every shade, Up to the northern tropic came,

Right Trusty, and so forth - we let you know We are very ill used by you mortals below. For, first, I have often by chemists been told,

Ireland is now our royal care, We lately fix'd our viceroy there. How near was she to be undone,

Apollo, god of light and wit, Could verse inspire, but seldom writ, Refined all metals with his looks,

The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd, Dims and obscures our sight; So, when our passions Love has stirr'd,

TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD 1710 Atlas, we read in ancient song,

WRITTEN IN 1737 At Dublin's high feast sat Primate and Dean, Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean:

To the tune of "Commons and Peers." A wonderful age Is now on the stage:

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells,

This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity; Had Fate a luckier one, she'd give it ye. She chose a thread of greatest length,

Upon Hearing That His Name Would Be Transmitted To Posterity In Dr. Swift's Works. By William Dunkin Well! now, since the heat of my passion's abated,

ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, Of classic beauty, haec et illa;

The shepherds and the nymphs were seen Pleading before the Cyprian queen. The counsel for the fair began,

IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI.    SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723 Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum,

TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds Its airy head amid the azure clouds,

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?

Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, Both special wits and lovers both, Conferring, as they used to meet,

Lesbia for ever on me rails, To talk of me she never fails. Now, hang me, but for all her art,

TO DICK[1] Foulest brute that stinks below, Why in this brown dost thou appear?

As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack,

ON MR. FORD[1] Come, be content, since out it must, For Stella has betray'd her trust;

1711-12 This day (the year I dare not tell) Apollo play'd the midwife's part;

Daphne knows, with equal ease, How to vex, and how to please; But the folly of her sex

Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri. - HOR. Epist., I, ii, 47. It was, my lord, the dexterous shift

The Dean would visit Market-Hill, Our invitation was but slight; I said - "Why let him, if he will:"

TO AN AGREEABLE YOUNG LADY, BUT EXTREMELY LEAN. 1730 Lord Orrery gives us the following curious anecdote respecting this poem: "I have just now cast my eye over a poem called 'Death and Daphne,' which makes me recollect an odd incident, relating to that nymph. Swift, soon after our acquaintance, introduced me to her as to one of his female favourites. I had scarce been half an hour in her company, before she asked me if I had seen the Dean's poem upon 'Death and Daphne.' As I told her I had not, she immediately unlocked a cabinet, and, bringing out the manuscript, read it to me with a seeming satisfaction, of which, at that time, I doubted the sincerity. While she was reading, the Dean was perpetually correcting her for bad pronunciation, and for placing a wrong emphasis upon particular words. As soon as she had gone through the composition, she assured me, smilingly, that the portrait of Daphne was drawn for herself. I begged to be excused from believing it; and protested that I could not see one feature that had the least resemblance; but the Dean immediately burst into a fit of laughter. 'You fancy,' says he, 'that you are very polite, but you are much mistaken. That lady had rather be a Daphne drawn by me, than a Sacharissa by any other pencil.' She confirmed what he had said with great earnestness, so that I had no other method of retrieving my error, than by whispering in her ear, as I was conducting her down stairs to dinner, that indeed I found

JOHN DENNIS, THE SHELTERING POET'S INVITATION TO RICHARD STEELE, THE SECLUDED PARTY-WRITER AND MEMBER, TO COME AND LIVE WITH HIM, IN THE MINT 1714 Fit to be bound up with "The Crisis" If thou canst lay aside a spendthrift's air,

'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire In men, Possession and Desire! Think what they wish so great a blessing;

Dull uniformity in fools I hate, who gape and sneer by rules; You, Mullinix, and slobbering C -    -

As when, from rooting in a bin, All powder'd o'er from tail to chin, A lively maggot sallies out,

To the tune of "Ye Commons and Peers." Dingley and Brent, Wherever they went,

1729 To form a just and finish'd piece, Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece,

WOULD you that Delville I describe? Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe: For who would be satirical

1718 Dear Dean, since in cruxes and puns you and I deal, Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle?

Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb: "Mortal, I would not change my doom, To live in such a restless state,

Don't think these few lines which I send, a reproach, From my Muse in a car, to your Muse in a coach. The great god of poems delights in a car,

Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass, That you who so lately were writing of drapiers,

POPE has the talent well to speak, But not to reach the ear; His loudest voice is low and weak,

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.

Her majesty never shall be my exalter; And yet she would raise me, I know, by a halter!

We give the world to understand, Our thriving Dean has purchased land; A purchase which will bring him clear

Great folks are of a finer mould; Lord! how politely they can scold! While a coarse English tongue will itch,

Friend Rundle fell, with grievous bump, Upon his reverential rump. Poor rump! thou hadst been better sped,

When Margery chastises Ned, She calls it combing of his head; A kinder wife was never born:

BY SWIFT AND OTHERS CHARLES CARTHY, a schoolmaster in the city of Dublin, was publisher of a translation of Horace, in which the Latin was printed on the one side, and the English on the other, whence he acquired the name of Mezentius, alluding to the practice of that tyrant, who chained the dead to the living. Carthy was almost continually involved in satirical skirmishes with Dunkin, for whom Swift had a particular friendship, and there is no doubt that the Dean himself engaged in the warfare. - Scott.

"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM" Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet.

"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, How vice and folly have debased mankind; Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause;

Who can believe with common sense, A bacon slice gives God offence; Or, how a herring has a charm

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 -

"Sic siti laetantur docti." With honour thus by Carolina placed, How are these venerable bustoes graced!

Carteret was welcomed to the shore First with the brazen cannon's roar; To meet him next the soldier comes,

What though the Dean hears not the knell Of the next church's passing bell; What though the thunder from a cloud,

Behold! a proof of Irish sense; Here Irish wit is seen! When nothing's left that's worth defence,

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, He took to the street, and fled for his life: Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,

BY THE DEAN. SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH Who dares affirm this is no pious age, When charity begins to tread the stage?

HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. He's not the first person who never did write,

BY THE SAME (DR. DELANY) Hoc tumulata jacet proles Lenaea sepulchro, Immortale genus, nee peritura jacet;

Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool, Men call'd him Dicky Pearce; His folly served to make folks laugh,

H. S. E. CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY, Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE,

Hic infra situm est corpus FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG. ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690.

Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly. Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy; For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demar, the wealthy and the wise, His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest,

ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago: Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et alt'

When on my bosom thy bright eyes, Florinda, dart their heavenly beams, I feel not the least love surprise,

IN THE DORIC MANNER Shepherd.    Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try?

UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT Now the active young attorneys Briskly travel on their journeys,

THE INSCRIPTION Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves;

Dick, thou'rt resolved, as I am told, Some strange arcana to unfold, And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen,

SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716 These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal attachment. - Scott. See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191. How blest is he who for his country dies,

Virtue conceal'd within our breast Is inactivity at best: But never shall the Muse endure

Patron of the tuneful throng, O! too nice, and too severe! Think not, that my country song

Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest,

I often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend,

WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714 Soon after the author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's death.[1] - Swift. 'Tis true - then why should I repine

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG To the Tune of "I tell thee, Dick, where I have been."[2] Ye Commons and Peers,

Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan,

By the just vengeance of incensed skies, Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies. The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe,

On Britain Europe's safety lies, Britain is lost if Harley dies: Harley depends upon your skill:

Resolve me this, ye happy dead, Who've lain some hundred years in bed, From every persecution free

Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies! To Strephon I have still been true,

From a town that consists of a church and a steeple, With three or four houses, and as many people, There went an Address in great form and good order,

This, the most humorous example of vers de soci't' in the English language, well illustrates the position of a parson in a family of distinction at that period. To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1] The humble petition of Frances Harris, Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries;

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,

JULY 28, 1728 Sure never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy,

OCCASIONED BY "APOLLO TO THE DEAN" 1720 Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh. The poets assembled here on the eleventh,

WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693 Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike At distant hours the mind with forms so like!

O, heavenly born! in deepest dells If fairest science ever dwells Beneath the mossy cave;

WRITTEN IN MAY, 1689, AT THE DESIRE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ELY I Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven,

ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown, Are arts peculiar to dissembling France;

Moor Park, Feb. 14, 1691. I As when the deluge first began to fall,

WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689 I Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies!

TO LADY CARTERET Of all inhabitants on earth, To man alone I owe my birth,

Begotten, and born, and dying with noise, The terror of women, and pleasure of boys, Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,

I'm up and down, and round about, Yet all the world can't find me out; Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,

Though I, alas! a prisoner be, My trade is prisoners to set free. No slave his lord's commands obeys

I marched three miles through scorching sand, With zeal in heart, and notes in hand; I rode four more to Great St. Mary,

The joy of man, the pride of brutes, Domestic subject for disputes, Of plenty thou the emblem fair,

We are little brethren twain, Arbiters of loss and gain, Many to our counters run,

In youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight,

Better we all were in our graves, Than live in slavery to slaves; Worse than the anarchy at sea,

By something form'd, I nothing am, Yet everything that you can name; In no place have I ever been,

Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I; Though none can tell which of us first shall die. ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT

We fly from luxury and wealth, To hardships, in pursuit of health; From generous wines, and costly fare,

Fool, to put up four crosses at your door, Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four.

A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd, Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed, Found out a new method at once of confessing,

An ass's hoof alone can hold That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. Methought, when I this poem read,

High as Longinus to the stars ascends, So deeply Carthy to the centre tends. RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA

So witches bent on bad pursuits, Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.

Ye wise, instruct me to endure An evil, which admits no cure; Or, how this evil can be borne,

At Market-Hill, as well appears By chronicle of ancient date, There stood for many hundred years

1734-5 Make Rundle bishop! fie for shame! An Arian to usurp the name!

Petronii Fragmenta, xxx. THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude, And with false flitting shades our minds delude

THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. BY DR. DELANY 'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient,

All-ruling tyrant of the earth, To vilest slaves I owe my birth, How is the greatest monarch blest,

I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night: Yet all that know me will agree,

Sir Robert,[2] wearied by Will Pulteney's teasings, Who interrupted him in all his leasings, Resolved that Will and he should meet no more,

When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene, Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene:

If Noisy Tom[1] should in the senate prate, "That he would answer both for church and state; And, farther, to demonstrate his affection,

A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself. This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent,

As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, Above the door, at country fair,

All human race would fain be wits, And millions miss for one that hits. Young's universal passion, pride,[1]

At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire: So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;

If there be truth in what you sing, Such godlike virtues in the king; A minister[1] so fill'd with zeal

INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1] Happiest of the spaniel race, Painter, with thy colours grace:

The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast,[1] Because he ne'er a thought allow'd

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin, No lady alive can show such a skin. I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,

The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail, The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains;

Dear Dick, pr'ythee tell by what passion you move? The world is in doubt whether hatred or love; And, while at good Cashel you rail with such spite,

- URBS INTACTA MANET - semper intacta manebit, Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat? TRANSLATION

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see,

Pray steal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's, Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1] Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans l'adversit' de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, qui ne nous d'plait pas." This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, 1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by Swift.

All of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind; Yet among us all no brother

There is a gate, we know full well, That stands 'twixt Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, Where many for a passage venture,

BY DR. DELANY Amphora, quae moestum linquis, laetumque revises Arentem dominum, sit tibi terra levis.

Old Latimer preaching did fairly describe A bishop, who ruled all the rest of his tribe; And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell?

Ye paltry underlings of state, Ye senators who love to prate; Ye rascals of inferior note,

1710 Whoever pleases to inquire Why yonder steeple wants a spire,

I with borrow'd silver shine What you see is none of mine. First I show you but a quarter,

Because I am by nature blind, I wisely choose to walk behind; However, to avoid disgrace,

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

I'm not the grandson of that ass Quin;[1] Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin. My grandame had gallants by twenties,

The queen has lately lost a part Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH[1] heart, For want of which, by way of botch,

We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in glass is set,

An inundation, says the fable, Overflow'd a farmer's barn and stable; Whole ricks of hay and stacks of corn

Ever eating, never cloying, All-devouring, all-destroying, Never finding full repast,

Salmoneus,[1] as the Grecian tale is, Was a mad coppersmith of Elis: Up at his forge by morning peep,

Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale; Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup,

The very reverend Dean Smedley, Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, Was equally allow'd to shine

Mr. William Crowe, Recorder of Blessington's Address to her Majesty, as copied from the London Gazette. To the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, The humble Address of the Sovereign, Recorder, Burgesses, and Freemen, of the Borough of Blessington.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND, 4TH JULY, 1711 This city can omit no opportunity of expressing their hearty affection for her majesty's person and government; and their regard for your grace, who has the honour of representing her in this kingdom. We retain, my lord, a grateful remembrance of the mild and just Administration of the government of this kingdom by your noble ancestors; and, when we consider the share your grace had in the happy Revolution, in 1688, and the many good laws you have procured us since, particularly that for preventing the farther growth of Popery, we are assured that that liberty and property, that happy constitution in church and state, to which we were restored by King William of glorious memory, will be inviolably preserved under your grace's administration. And we are persuaded that we cannot more effectually recommend ourselves to your grace's favour and protection, than by assuring you that we will, to the utmost of our power, contribute to the honour and safety of her majesty's government, the maintenance of the succession in the illustrious house of Hanover, and that we shall at all times oppose the secret and open attempts of the Pretender, and all his abettors.

Illustrious prince, we're come before ye, Who, more than in our founders, glory To be by you protected;

BY MR. LINDSAY[1] Dublin, Sept. 7, 1728. "A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats,

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL 1712 To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again."

From Venus born, thy beauty shows; But who thy father, no man knows: Nor can the skilful herald trace

Desponding Phyllis was endu'd With ev'ry talent of a prude: She trembled when a man drew near;

Some ancient authors wisely write, That he who drinks will wake at night, Will never fail to lose his rest,

A long-ear'd beast, and a field-house for cattle, Among the coals doth often rattle.[1] A long-ear'd beast, a bird that prates,

[1] Great cry, and little wool - is now become The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom;

When first the squire and tinker Wood Gravely consulting Ireland's good, Together mingled in a mass

-    - 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.

Robin to beggars with a curse, Throws the last shilling in his purse; And when the coachman comes for pay,

Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. Can anything be more unkind?

Poor Hall, renown'd for comely hair, Whose hands, perhaps, were not so fair, Yet had a Jezebel as near;

1723 - cuicumque nocere volebat, Vestimenta dabat pretiosa.[1]

St. Patrick's Dean, your country's pride, My early and my only guide, Let me among the rest attend,

Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan't dispute a year or more:) However, Stella, be not troubled,

This day, whate'er the Fates decree, Shall still be kept with joy by me: This day then let us not be told,

As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time,

WRITTEN A.D. 1720-21. - Stella. All travellers at first incline Where'er they see the fairest sign

A GREAT BOTTLE OF WINE, LONG BURIED, BEING THAT DAY DUG UP. 1722-3 Resolv'd my annual verse to pay, By duty bound, on Stella's day,

Of Chloe all the town has rung, By ev'ry size of poets sung: So beautiful a nymph appears

The wise pretend to make it clear, 'Tis no great loss to lose an ear. Why are we then so fond of two,

Sir, I thank you for your comedies. I'll stay and read 'em now at home a-days,

Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, And honest Paulus judges right. Then, why these quarrels to the sun,

A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of the Author's from London. - Dublin Edition. *        *        *        *        * *        *        *        *        *

PREFACE I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and greater mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of mankind, than the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their own talents. I knew a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter of coffeehouses, who, when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly seized it first, and read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a manner as little intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many pretenders to learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on those very parts of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is the same case in every other qualification. By the multitude of those who deal in rhymes, from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every minute, there must be at least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs of London: half as many coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, forty thousand politicians, and four thousand five hundred profound scholars; not to mention the wits, the railers, the smart fellows, and critics; all as illiterate and impudent as a suburb whore. What are we to think of the fine-dressed sparks, proud of their own personal deformities, which appear the more hideous by the contrast of wearing scarlet and gold, with what they call toupees[1] on their heads, and all the frippery of a modern beau, to make a figure before women; some of them with hump-backs, others hardly five feet high, and every feature of their faces distorted: I have seen many of these insipid pretenders entering into conversation with persons of learning, constantly making the grossest blunders in every sentence, without conveying one single idea fit for a rational creature to spend a thought on; perpetually confounding all chronology, and geography, even of present times. I compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau and puppy kind, for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours transplanted thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown capital exceeds ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what is more to our farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool of Irish birth or education, who makes any noise in that famous metropolis, unless the London prints be very partial or defective; whereas London is seldom without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the vogue for half a winter together, and are never heard of more, but give place to a new set. This has been the constant progress for at least thirty years past, only allowing for the change of breed and fashion. The poem is grounded upon the universal folly in mankind of mistaking their talents; by which the author does a great honour to his own species, almost equalling them with certain brutes; wherein, indeed, he is too partial, as he freely confesses: and yet he has gone as low as he well could, by specifying four animals; the wolf, the ass, the swine, and the ape; all equally mischievous, except the last, who outdoes them in the article of cunning: so great is the pride of man!

Inscribed To Lord Carteret[1] (Verses Written During Lord Carteret's Administration Of Ireland) 1724 Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus. - VIRG., Aen., v, 344.

PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. DRAMATIS PERSONAE

With a whirl of thought oppress'd, I sunk from reverie to rest. An horrid vision seized my head;

James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends; James is beduked; of course their friendship ends: But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke,

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN SIR, I cannot but think that we live in a bad age,

The nymph who wrote this in an amorous fit, I cannot but envy the pride of her wit, Which thus she will venture profusely to throw

DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown.

On rainy days alone I dine Upon a chick and pint of wine. On rainy days I dine alone,

I will not build on yonder mount; And, should you call me to account, Consulting with myself, I find

From Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. x, 67; lib. xxix. As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are Call'd Pompey, Scipio, and Caesar;

Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he executed the following very spirited translation. TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720 O'ROURKE'S noble fare

When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1] Statesmen and mob expected wonders, Nor thought to find so great a peer

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

BY DR. SWIFT (Dean Smedley's Petition To The Duke Of Grafton) Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, Where wit in all its glory shines;

WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE; AND TAKEN FROM COKE'S FOURTH INSTITUTE THE HIGH COURT OF PARLIAMENT, CAP. I Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall; secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is, without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ... thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might prevent dangers to come." Ere bribes convince you whom to choose,

Here, five feet deep, lies on his back A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; Who to the stars, in pure good will,

Collated with Stella's copy. - Forster. Midas, we are in story told,[2] Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold:

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715, ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT A bitch, that was full pregnant grown By all the dogs and curs in town,

Written in the year 1713, when the Queen's ministers were quarrelling among themselves. Observe the dying father speak: Try, lads, can you this bundle break?

OR BARON (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL'S CHARGE AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 17IO Risum teneatis? - HORAT., Ars Poetica, 5. From London to Exon,

A set of phrases learn'd by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play, to laugh or cry,

When Naboth's vineyard[1] look'd so fine, The king cried out, "Would this were mine!" And yet no reason could prevail

WHETHER HAMILTON'S BAWN[1] SHOULD BE TURNED INTO A BARRACK OR MALT-HOUSE. 1729 THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION

Come hither, and behold the fruits, Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits. Take wise advice, and look behind,

Poor ladies! though their business be to play, 'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: Why should they want the privilege of men,

1708 When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, And call'd to take the cards away,

Five hours (and who can do it less in?) By haughty Celia spent in dressing; The goddess from her chamber issues,

Logicians have but ill defined As rational, the human kind; Reason, they say, belongs to man,

That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic, Can wish to die in strains heroic, No real fortitude implies:

1730 - quis iniquae Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se? - -Juv. i, 30.

All folks who pretend to religion and grace, Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined

If neither brass nor marble can withstand The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; If mountains sink to vales, if cities die,

Did ever problem thus perplex, Or more employ the female sex? So sweet a passion who would think,

When first Diana leaves her bed, Vapours and steams her looks disgrace, A frowzy dirty-colour'd red

AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, A reverend Dean began to woo[2] A handsome, young, imperious girl,

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still,

The life of man to represent, And turn it all to ridicule, Wit did a puppet-show invent,

Venus one day, as story goes, But for what reason no man knows, In sullen mood and grave deport,

From distant regions Fortune sends An odd triumvirate of friends; Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,

The bold encroachers on the deep Gain by degrees huge tracts of land, Till Neptune, with one general sweep,

Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, Arma vir'm, tabulaeque, et Tro'a gaza per undas. VIRG.

Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise Descending lately from the skies, To Neptune went, and begg'd in form

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?

The rod was but a harmless wand, While Moses held it in his hand; But, soon as e'er he laid it down,

"About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight's widow was buried in the cloisters. In digging the grave, the sexton struck against a small leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St. George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a shift to obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I am informed, is now in the hands of the ingenious Dr. Woodward, F. R. S. where, I suppose, the curious will not be refused the satisfaction of seeing it. "The lines seem to be a sort of prophecy, and written in verse, as old prophecies usually are, but in a very hobbling kind of measure. Their meaning is very dark, if it be any at all; of which the learned reader can judge better than I: however it be, several persons were of opinion that they deserved to be published, both as they discover somewhat of the genius of a former age, and may be an amusement to the present." - Swift. The subject of this virulent satire was Elizabeth, Baroness Percy, daughter and heiress of Josceline, Earl of Northumberland, who died in 1670. She was born in 1666. In 1679 she was married to Henry Cavendish, Earl of Ogle, who died in 1680. In 1681, she married Thomas Thynne, a man of great wealth, a friend of the Duke of Monmouth and the Issachar of Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel." A few months afterwards, in February 1681-2, Thynne was assassinated in the Haymarket by foreigners, who were devoted friends of Count Konigsmark, and appear to have acted under his direction. The Count had been in London shortly before Lady Ogle's marriage to Thynne, and had then paid his addresses to her. He fled the day after the murder, but was brought back, and was tried with the principals as an accessory, but was acquitted. Four months after the murder of Thynne, his widow was married to Charles Seymour, Duke of Somerset, on 30th May, 1682, and ultimately became the favourite and friend of Queen Anne, and a zealous partisan of the Whig party. Hence Swift's "Prophecy." See "State Trials," vol. ix, and "Notes and Queries," 1st S., v. 269.

To the Tune of "Derry Down." Jolly boys of St. Kevan's,[2] St. Patrick's, Donore And Smithfield, I'll tell you, if not told before,

My meaning will be best unravell'd, When I premise that Tim has travell'd. In Lucas's by chance there lay

The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night And fortune help the murderer in his flight; The vilest ruffian may commit a rape,

After venting all my spite, Tell me, what have I to write? Every error I could find

Queen of wit and beauty, Betty, Never may the Muse forget ye, How thy face charms every shepherd,

On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his Longinus. Thus vagrant beggars, to extort By charity a mean support,

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,

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.

Mordanto fills the trump of fame, The Christian world his deeds proclaim, And prints are crowded with his name.

BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728 Good cause have I to sing and vapour, For I am landlord to the Drapier:

1729 - Tanti tibi non sit opaci Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum. - Juv. iii, 54.

Whate'er your predecessors taught us, I have a great esteem for Plautus; And think your boys may gather there-hence

Serus in coelum redeas, diuque Laetus intersis populo. - HOR., Carm. I, ii, 45. Great, good, and just, was once applied

Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; To oblige your crony Swift,

BY DR. DELANY I reach all things near me, and far off to boot, Without stretching a finger, or stirring a foot;

BY DR. SWIFT FROM India's burning clime I'm brought, With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.

Among the numbers who employ Their tongues and pens to give you joy, Dear Harley! generous youth, admit

In all I wish, how happy should I be, Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee! So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise;

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1693 Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, The Muse was called in a poetic hour,

OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING To you whose virtues, I must own With shame, I have too lately known;

REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR, I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school, in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane. I am yours,

You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due,

WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTH, MARCH 13, 1723-4, BUT NOT ON THE SUBJECT, WHEN I WAS SICK IN BED Tormented with incessant pains, Can I devise poetic strains?

While, Stella, to your lasting praise The Muse her annual tribute pays, While I assign myself a task

Pallas, observing Stella's wit Was more than for her sex was fit, And that her beauty, soon or late,

As, when a lofty pile is raised, We never hear the workmen praised, Who bring the lime, or place the stones.

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,

Dear Dean, I'm in a sad condition, I cannot see to read or write; Pity the darkness of thy Priscian,

Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise Have made a recantation, From your low bended knees arise;

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 PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1732.[1] BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send; Small is the present, but sincere the friend.

12 o'Clock at Noon Sept. 12, 1718. SIR,

Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle; But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single. For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime,

Written A.D. 1712. - Stella. Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5. Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party writer in behalf of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet on the demolition of Dunkirk, and another called "The Art of Reasoning," in which he directly charged Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender. The Earl of Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called Dismal from his swarthy complexion, was bred a rigid High-Churchman, and was only induced to support the Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their consenting to the bill against occasional conformity. He was so distinguished for regularity, as to be termed by Rowe

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

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN[1] 1730 Tom.

Traulus, of amphibious breed, Motley fruit of mongrel seed; By the dam from lordlings sprung.

I LEST it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read.

You have undone Horace, - what should hinder Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar? But ere you mount his fiery steed,

DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S FRENCH DOG,[1] IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY I ask'd a Whig the other night, How came this wicked plot to light?

In times of old, when Time was young, And poets their own verses sung, A verse would draw a stone or beam,

In times of old, when Time was young, And poets their own verses sung, A verse would draw a stone or beam,

If it be true, celestial powers, That you have form'd me fair, And yet, in all my vainest hours,

Hither from Mexico I came, To serve a proud Iernian dame: Was long submitted to her will;

APPLES Come buy my fine wares, Plums, apples, and pears.

A paper book is sent by Boyle, Too neatly gilt for me to soil. Delany sends a silver standish,

Libertas et natale solum: [2] Fine words! I wonder where you stole 'em. Could nothing but thy chief reproach

Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas! MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.

My latest tribute here I send, With this let your collection end. Thus I consign you down to fame

DURING WALPOLE'S ADMINISTRATION, A. D. 1725 Quoth King Robin, our ribbons I see are too few Of St. Andrew's the green, and St. George's the blue.

By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame, To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came; What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun,

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

Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise With lofty branches to the skies, Have large proportion'd roots that grow

(Horace speaking.) You've read, sir, in poetic strain, How Varus and the Mantuan swain

Shall then my kindred all my glory claim, And boldly rob me of eternal fame? To every art my gen'rous aid I lend,

Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine,

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, SUPPOSED TO BE MADE, AND SUNG IN THE STREETS OF DUBLIN, BY WILLIAM WOOD, IRONMONGER AND HALFPENNY-MONGER. 1725 My dear Irish folks, Come leave off your jokes,

By long observation I have understood, That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood. The first is an insect they call a wood-louse,

Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est,

Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part, And think thou seest my owner's heart, Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite