PARODY. 
ON THE SPEECH OF DR. BENJAMIN PRATT,. 
PROVOST OF TRINITY COLLEGE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES.

Illustrious prince, we’re come before ye,
Who, more than in our founders, glory
            To be by you protected;
Deign to descend and give us laws,
For we are converts to your cause,
            From this day well-affected.

The noble view of your high merits
Has charm’d our thoughts and fix’d our spirits,
            With zeal so warm and hearty;
That we resolved to be devoted,
At least until we be promoted,
            By your just power and party.

Urged by a passionate desire
Of being raised a little higher,
            From lazy cloister’d life;
We cannot flatter you nor fawn,
But fain would honour’d be with lawn,
            And settled by a wife.

For this we have before resorted,
Paid levees punctually, and courted,
            Our charge at home long quitting,
But now we’re come just in the nick,
Upon a vacant bishopric,
            This bait can’t fail of hitting.

Thus, sir, you see how much affection,
Not interest, sways in this election,
            But sense of loyal duty. 
For you surpass all princes far,
As glow-worms do exceed a star,
            In goodness, wit, and beauty.

To you our Irish Commons owe
That wisdom which their actions show,
            Their principles from ours springs,
Taught, ere the deel himself could dream on’t,
That of their illustrious house a stem on’t,
            Should rise the best of kings.

The glad presages with our eyes
Behold a king, chaste, vigilant, and wise,
           In foreign fields victorious,
Who in his youth the Turks attacks,
And [made] them still to turn their backs;
           Was ever king so glorious?

Since Ormond’s like a traitor gone,
We scorn to do what some have done,
           For learning much more famous;
Fools may pursue their adverse fate,
And stick to the unfortunate;
           We laugh while they condemn us.

For, being of that gen’rous mind,
To success we are still inclined,
            And quit the suffering side,
If on our friends cross planets frown,
We join the cry, and hunt them down,
            And sail with wind and tide.

Hence ’twas this choice we long delay’d,
Till our rash foes the rebels fled,
              Whilst fortune held the scale;
But [since] they’re driven like mist before you,
Our rising sun, we now adore you,
             Because you now prevail.

Descend then from your lofty seat,
Behold th’ attending Muses wait
            With us to sing your praises;
Calliope now strings up her lyre,
And Clio Phoebus does inspire,
The theme their fancy raises.

If then our nursery you will nourish,
We and our Muses too will flourish,
           Encouraged by your favour;
We’ll doctrines teach the times to serve,
And more five thousand pounds deserve,
           By future good behaviour.

Now take our harp into your hand,
The joyful strings, at your command,
           In doleful sounds no more shall mourn. 
We, with sincerity of heart,
To all your tunes shall bear a part,
            Unless we see the tables turn.

If so, great sir, you will excuse us,
For we and our attending Muses
           May live to change our strain;
And turn, with merry hearts, our tune,
Upon some happy tenth of June,
          To “the king enjoys his own again.”

There is great reason to suppose that the satire is the work of Swift, whose attachment to Ormond was uniformly ardent.  Of this it may be worth while to mention a trifling instance.  The duke had presented to the cathedral of St. Patrick’s a superb organ, surmounted by his own armorial bearings.  It was placed facing the nave of the church.  But after Ormond’s attainder, Swift, as Dean of St. Patrick’s, received orders from government to remove the scutcheon from the church.  He obeyed, but he placed the shield in the great aisle, where he himself and Stella lie buried, and where the arms still remain.  The verses have suffered much by the inaccuracy of the noble transcriber, Lord Newtoun Butler.

The original speech will be found in the London Gazette of Tuesday,
April 17, 1716, and Scott’s edition of Swift, vol. xii, .  The
Provost, it appears, was attended by the Rev. Dr. Howard, and Mr. George
Berkeley, (afterwards Bishop of Cloyne,) both of them fellows of Trinity
College, Dublin.  The speech was praised by Addison, in the Freeholder,
N. ­W.  E. B.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 
ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLE-21.

To the tune of “Packington’s Pound.”

Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes,
Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over,
With forty things more:  now hear what the law says,
Whoe’er will not wear them is not the king’s lover. 
    Though a printer and Dean,
    Seditiously mean,
Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean,
We’ll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

In England the dead in woollen are clad,
  The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on;
To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad,
  Since a living dog better is than a dead lion. 
    Our wives they grow sullen
    At wearing of woollen,
And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in. 
Then we’ll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

Whoever our trading with England would hinder,
  To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire,
Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder,
  And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire. 
    Therefore, I assure ye,
    Our noble grand jury,
When they saw the Dean’s book, they were in a great fury;
They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning,
  And before coram nobis so oft has been call’d,
Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen,
  And if swearing can do’t shall be swingingly maul’d: 
    And as for the Dean,
    You know whom I mean,
If the printer will peach him, he’ll scarce come off clean. 
Then we’ll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS.

The bold encroachers on the deep
  Gain by degrees huge tracts of land,
Till Neptune, with one general sweep,
  Turns all again to barren strand.

The multitude’s capricious pranks
  Are said to represent the seas,
Breaking the bankers and the banks,
  Resume their own whene’er they please.

Money, the life-blood of the nation,
  Corrupts and stagnates in the veins,
Unless a proper circulation
  Its motion and its heat maintains.

Because ’tis lordly not to pay,
  Quakers and aldermen in state,
Like peers, have levees every day
  Of duns attending at their gate.

We want our money on the nail;
  The banker’s ruin’d if he pays: 
They seem to act an ancient tale;
  The birds are met to strip the jays.

“Riches,” the wisest monarch sings,
  “Make pinions for themselves to fly;"
They fly like bats on parchment wings,
  And geese their silver plumes supply.

No money left for squandering heirs! 
  Bills turn the lenders into debtors: 
The wish of Nero now is theirs,
  “That they had never known their letters.”

Conceive the works of midnight hags,
  Tormenting fools behind their backs: 
Thus bankers, o’er their bills and bags,
  Sit squeezing images of wax.

Conceive the whole enchantment broke;
  The witches left in open air,
With power no more than other folk,
  Exposed with all their magic ware.

So powerful are a banker’s bills,
  Where creditors demand their due;
They break up counters, doors, and tills,
  And leave the empty chests in view.

Thus when an earthquake lets in light
  Upon the god of gold and hell,
Unable to endure the sight,
  He hides within his darkest cell.

As when a conjurer takes a lease
  From Satan for a term of years,
The tenant’s in a dismal case,
  Whene’er the bloody bond appears.

A baited banker thus desponds,
  From his own hand foresees his fall,
They have his soul, who have his bonds;
  ’Tis like the writing on the wall.

How will the caitiff wretch be scared,
  When first he finds himself awake
At the last trumpet, unprepared,
  And all his grand account to make!

For in that universal call,
  Few bankers will to heaven be mounters;
They’ll cry, “Ye shops, upon us fall! 
  Conceal and cover us, ye counters!”

When other hands the scales shall hold,
  And they, in men’s and angels’ sight
Produced with all their bills and gold,
  “Weigh’d in the balance and found light!”

UPON THE HORRID PLOT. 
DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER’S FRENCH DOG,. 
IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY.

I ask’d a Whig the other night,
How came this wicked plot to light? 
He answer’d, that a dog of late
Inform’d a minister of state. 
Said I, from thence I nothing know;
For are not all informers so? 
A villain who his friend betrays,
We style him by no other phrase;
And so a perjured dog denotes
Porter, and Pendergast, and Oates,
And forty others I could name. 
  WHIG.  But you must know this dog was lame. 
  TORY.  A weighty argument indeed! 
Your evidence was lame: ­proceed: 
Come, help your lame dog o’er the stile. 
  WHIG.  Sir, you mistake me all this while: 
I mean a dog (without a joke)
Can howl, and bark, but never spoke. 
  TORY.  I’m still to seek, which dog you mean;
Whether cur Plunkett, or whelp Skean,
An English or an Irish hound;
Or t’other puppy, that was drown’d;
Or Mason, that abandon’d bitch: 
Then pray be free, and tell me which: 
For every stander-by was marking,
That all the noise they made was barking. 
You pay them well, the dogs have got
Their dogs-head in a porridge-pot: 
And ’twas but just; for wise men say,
That every dog must have his day. 
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on’t,
He’d either make a hog or dog on’t;
And look’d, since he has got his wish,
As if he had thrown down a dish,
Yet this I dare foretell you from it,
He’ll soon return to his own vomit. 
  WHIG.  Besides, this horrid plot was found
By Neynoe, after he was drown’d. 
  TORY.  Why then the proverb is not right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite. 
  WHIG.  I proved my proposition full: 
But Jacobites are strangely dull. 
Now, let me tell you plainly, sir,
Our witness is a real cur,
A dog of spirit for his years;
Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that’s a name in every plot: 
Resolved to save the British nation,
Though French by birth and education;
His correspondence plainly dated,
Was all decipher’d and translated: 
His answers were exceeding pretty,
Before the secret wise committee;
Confest as plain as he could bark: 
Then with his fore-foot set his mark. 
  TORY.  Then all this while have I been bubbled,
I thought it was a dog in doublet: 
The matter now no longer sticks: 
For statesmen never want dog-tricks. 
But since it was a real cur,
And not a dog in metaphor,
I give you joy of the report,
That he’s to have a place at court. 
  WHIG.  Yes, and a place he will grow rich in;
A turnspit in the royal kitchen. 
Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occasion for a plot;
And when we found the dog begin it,
We guess’d the bishop’s foot was in it. 
  TORY.  I own it was a dangerous project,
And you have proved it by dog-logic. 
Sure such intelligence between
A dog and bishop ne’er was seen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your bishops are all dogs indeed!

A QUIBBLING ELEGY ON JUDGE BOA

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
His lading little, and his ballast less? 
Tost in the waves of this tempestuous world,
At length, his anchor fix’d and canvass furl’d,
To Lazy-hill retiring from his court,
At his Ring’s end he founders in the port. 
With water fill’d, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a stronger boat. 
A post so fill’d on nature’s laws entrenches: 
Benches on boats are placed, not boats on benches. 
And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot. 
With every wind he sail’d, and well could tack: 
Had many pendants, but abhorr’d a Jack.
He’s gone, although his friends began to hope,
That he might yet be lifted by a rope. 
  Behold the awful bench, on which he sat! 
He was as hard and ponderous wood as that: 
Yet when his sand was out, we find at last,
That death has overset him with a blast. 
Our Boat is now sail’d to the Stygian ferry,
There to supply old Charon’s leaky wherry;
Charon in him will ferry souls to Hell;
A trade our Boat has practised here so well: 
And Cerberus has ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws. 
Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Boat in his old post again. 
The way is thus:  and well deserves your thanks: 
Take the three strongest of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen,
Form’d like the triple tree near Stephen’s Green:
And, when we view it thus with thief at end on’t,
We’ll cry; look, here’s our Boat, and there’s the pendant.

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies Judge Boat within a coffin: 
Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing. 
A Boat a judge! yes; where’s the blunder? 
A wooden judge is no such wonder. 
And in his robes you must agree,
No boat was better deckt than he. 
’Tis needless to describe him fuller;
In short, he was an able sculler.

VERSES OCCASIONED BY WHITSHED’S MOTTO ON HIS COAC.

Libertas et natale solum:
Fine words!  I wonder where you stole ’em. 
Could nothing but thy chief reproach
Serve for a motto on thy coach? 
But let me now the words translate: 
Natale solum, my estate;
My dear estate, how well I love it,
My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it,
They swear I am so kind and good,
I hug them till I squeeze their blood.
  Libertas bears a large import: 
First, how to swagger in a court;
And, secondly, to show my fury
Against an uncomplying jury;
And, thirdly, ’tis a new invention,
To favour Wood, and keep my pension;
And, fourthly, ’tis to play an odd trick,
Get the great seal and turn out Broderick;
And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean,)
To humble that vexatious Dean: 
And, sixthly, for my soul to barter it
For fifty times its worth to Carteret.
Now since your motto thus you construe,
I must confess you’ve spoken once true.
Libertas et natale solum:
You had good reason when you stole ’em.

PROMETHEUS. 
ON WOOD THE PATENTEE’S IRISH HALFPENCE.
1724.

When first the squire and tinker Wood
Gravely consulting Ireland’s good,
Together mingled in a mass
Smith’s dust, and copper, lead, and brass;
The mixture thus by chemic art
United close in ev’ry part,
In fillets roll’d, or cut in pieces,
Appear’d like one continued species;
And, by the forming engine struck,
On all the same impression took. 
  So, to confound this hated coin,
All parties and religions join;
Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians,
Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians,
Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite,
With equal interest, equal spite
Together mingled in a lump,
Do all in one opinion jump;
And ev’ry one begins to find
The same impression on his mind. 
  A strange event! whom gold incites
To blood and quarrels, brass unites;
So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff
Will serve for solder well enough: 
So by the kettle’s loud alarms
The bees are gather’d into swarms,
So by the brazen trumpet’s bluster
Troops of all tongues and nations muster;
And so the harp of Ireland brings
Whole crowds about its brazen strings. 
  There is a chain let down from Jove,
But fasten’d to his throne above,
So strong that from the lower end,
They say all human things depend. 
This chain, as ancient poets hold,
When Jove was young, was made of gold,
Prometheus once this chain purloin’d,
Dissolved, and into money coin’d;
Then whips me on a chain of brass;
(Venus was bribed to let it pass.)
  Now while this brazen chain prevail’d,
Jove saw that all devotion fail’d;
No temple to his godship raised;
No sacrifice on altars blazed;
In short, such dire confusion follow’d,
Earth must have been in chaos swallow’d. 
Jove stood amazed; but looking round,
With much ado the cheat he found;
’Twas plain he could no longer hold
The world in any chain but gold;
And to the god of wealth, his brother,
Sent Mercury to get another. 
  Prometheus on a rock is laid,
Tied with the chain himself had made,
On icy Caucasus to shiver,
While vultures eat his growing liver.

Ye powers of Grub-Street, make me able
Discreetly to apply this fable;
Say, who is to be understood
By that old thief Prometheus? ­Wood. 
For Jove, it is not hard to guess him;
I mean his majesty, God bless him. 
This thief and blacksmith was so bold,
He strove to steal that chain of gold,
Which links the subject to the king,
And change it for a brazen string. 
But sure, if nothing else must pass
Betwixt the king and us but brass,
Although the chain will never crack,
Yet our devotion may grow slack. 
  But Jove will soon convert, I hope,
This brazen chain into a rope;
With which Prometheus shall be tied,
And high in air for ever ride;
Where, if we find his liver grows,
For want of vultures, we have crows.

VERSES ON THE REVIVAL OF THE ORDER OF THE BATH,.  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. 
I must find out another of colour more gay,
That will teach all my subjects with pride to obey. 
Though the exchequer be drain’d by prodigal donors,
Yet the king ne’er exhausted his fountain of honours. 
Men of more wit than money our pensions will fit,
And this will fit men of more money than wit. 
Thus my subjects with pleasure will obey my commands,
Though as empty as Younge, and as saucy as Sandes
And he who’ll leap over a stick for the king,
Is qualified best for a dog in a string.

EPIGRAM ON WOOD’S BRASS MONEY.

Carteret was welcomed to the shore
First with the brazen cannon’s roar;
To meet him next the soldier comes,
With brazen trumps and brazen drums;
Approaching near the town he hears
The brazen bells salute his ears: 
But when Wood’s brass began to sound,
Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown’d.

A SIMILE. 
ON OUR WANT OF SILVER, AND THE ONLY WAY TO REMEDY I.

As when of old some sorceress threw
O’er the moon’s face a sable hue,
To drive unseen her magic chair,
At midnight, through the darken’d air;
Wise people, who believed with reason
That this eclipse was out of season,
Affirm’d the moon was sick, and fell
To cure her by a counter spell. 
Ten thousand cymbals now begin,
To rend the skies with brazen din;
The cymbals’ rattling sounds dispel
The cloud, and drive the hag to hell. 
The moon, deliver’d from her pain,
Displays her silver face again. 
Note here, that in the chemic style,
The moon is silver all this while. 
  So (if my simile you minded,
Which I confess is too long-winded)
When late a feminine magician,
Join’d with a brazen politician,
Exposed, to blind the nation’s eyes,
A parchment of prodigious size;
Conceal’d behind that ample screen,
There was no silver to be seen. 
But to this parchment let the Drapier
Oppose his counter-charm of paper,
And ring Wood’s copper in our ears
So loud till all the nation hears;
That sound will make the parchment shrivel
And drive the conjurors to the Devil;
And when the sky is grown serene,
Our silver will appear again.

WOOD AN INSEC.

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,
That folds up itself in itself for a house,
As round as a ball, without head, without tail,
Enclosed cap a pie, in a strong coat of mail. 
And thus William Wood to my fancy appears
In fillets of brass roll’d up to his ears;
And over these fillets he wisely has thrown,
To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone.
The louse of the wood for a medicine is used
Or swallow’d alive, or skilfully bruised. 
And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive
To swallow Will Wood, either bruised or alive,
She need be no more with the jaundice possest,
Or sick of obstructions, and pains in her chest. 
  The next is an insect we call a wood-worm,
That lies in old wood like a hare in her form;
With teeth or with claws it will bite or will scratch,
And chambermaids christen this worm a death-watch;
Because like a watch it always cries click;
Then woe be to those in the house who are sick: 
For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost,
If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post;
But a kettle of scalding hot-water injected
Infallibly cures the timber affected;
The omen is broken, the danger is over;
The maggot will die, and the sick will recover. 
Such a worm was Will Wood, when he scratch’d at the door
Of a governing statesman or favourite whore;
The death of our nation he seem’d to foretell,
And the sound of his brass we took for our knell. 
But now, since the Drapier has heartily maul’d him,
I think the best thing we can do is to scald him;
For which operation there’s nothing more proper
Than the liquor he deals in, his own melted copper;
Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil
This coiner of raps in a caldron of oil. 
Then choose which you please, and let each bring a fagot,
For our fear’s at an end with the death of the maggot.

ON WOOD THE IRONMONGE.

Salmoneus, as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad coppersmith of Elis: 
Up at his forge by morning peep,
No creature in the lane could sleep;
Among a crew of roystering fellows
Would sit whole evenings at the alehouse;
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed. 
This vapouring scab must needs devise
To ape the thunder of the skies: 
With brass two fiery steeds he shod,
To make a clattering as they trod,
Of polish’d brass his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar;
And up he mounts into the box,
And he must thunder, with a pox. 
Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o’er a brazen arch;
With squibs and crackers arm’d to throw
Among the trembling crowd below. 
All ran to prayers, both priests and laity,
To pacify this angry deity;
When Jove, in pity to the town,
With real thunder knock’d him down. 
Then what a huge delight were all in,
To see the wicked varlet sprawling;
They search’d his pockets on the place,
And found his copper all was base;
They laugh’d at such an Irish blunder,
To take the noise of brass for thunder. 
  The moral of this tale is proper,
Applied to Wood’s adulterate copper: 
Which, as he scatter’d, we, like dolts,
Mistook at first for thunderbolts,
Before the Drapier shot a letter,
(Nor Jove himself could do it better)
Which lighting on the impostor’s crown,
Like real thunder knock’d him down.

WILL WOOD’S PETITION TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND.

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG,. 
SUPPOSED TO BE MADE, AND SUNG IN THE STREETS OF DUBLIN,. 
BY WILLIAM WOOD, IRONMONGER AND HALFPENNY-MONGE.

    My dear Irish folks,
    Come leave off your jokes,
And buy up my halfpence so fine;
    So fair and so bright
    They’ll give you delight;
Observe how they glisten and shine!

    They’ll sell to my grief
    As cheap as neck-beef,
For counters at cards to your wife;
    And every day
    Your children may play
Span-farthing or toss on the knife.

    Come hither and try,
    I’ll teach you to buy
A pot of good ale for a farthing;
    Come, threepence a score,
    I ask you no more,
And a fig for the Drapier and Harding.

    When tradesmen have gold,
    The thief will be bold,
By day and by night for to rob him: 
    My copper is such,
    No robber will touch,
And so you may daintily bob him.

    The little blackguard
    Who gets very hard
His halfpence for cleaning your shoes: 
    When his pockets are cramm’d
    With mine, and be d ­d,
He may swear he has nothing to lose.

    Here’s halfpence in plenty,
    For one you’ll have twenty,
Though thousands are not worth a pudden. 
    Your neighbours will think,
    When your pocket cries chink. 
You are grown plaguy rich on a sudden.

    You will be my thankers,
    I’ll make you my bankers,
As good as Ben Burton or Fade;
    For nothing shall pass
    But my pretty brass,
And then you’ll be all of a trade.

    I’m a son of a whore
    If I have a word more
To say in this wretched condition. 
    If my coin will not pass,
    I must die like an ass;
And so I conclude my petition.

A NEW SONG ON WOOD’S HALFPENCE.

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. 
          Which nobody can deny.

The halfpence are coming, the nation’s undoing,
There’s an end of your ploughing, and baking, and brewing;
In short, you must all go to wreck and to ruin. 
          Which, &c.

Both high men and low men, and thick men and tall men,
And rich men and poor men, and free men and thrall men,
Will suffer; and this man, and that man, and all men. 
          Which, &c.

The soldier is ruin’d, poor man! by his pay;
His fivepence will prove but a farthing a-day,
For meat, or for drink; or he must run away. 
          Which, &c.

When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not,
That ten times as much he must pay for his shot;
And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot. 
          Which, &c.

If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff,
And twentypence have for a twopenny loaf,
Then dog, rogue, and rascal, and so kick and cuff. 
          Which, &c.

Again, to the market whenever he goes,
The butcher and soldier must be mortal foes,
One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose. 
          Which, &c.

The butcher is stout, and he values no swagger;
A cleaver’s a match any time for a dagger,
And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may stagger. 
          Which, &c.

The beggars themselves will be broke in a trice,
When thus their poor farthings are sunk in their price;
When nothing is left they must live on their lice. 
          Which, &c.

The squire who has got him twelve thousand a-year,
O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear! 
Should he take them, he would not have house-room, I fear. 
          Which, &c.

Though at present he lives in a very large house,
There would then not be room in it left for a mouse;
But the squire is too wise, he will not take a souse. 
          Which, &c.

The farmer who comes with his rent in this cash,
For taking these counters and being so rash,
Will be kick’d out of doors, both himself and his trash. 
          Which, &c.

For, in all the leases that ever we hold,
We must pay our rent in good silver and gold,
And not in brass tokens of such a base mould. 
          Which, &c.

The wisest of lawyers all swear, they will warrant
No money but silver and gold can be current;
And, since they will swear it, we all may be sure on’t. 
          Which, &c.

And I think, after all, it would be very strange,
To give current money for base in exchange,
Like a fine lady swapping her moles for the mange. 
          Which, &c.

But read the king’s patent, and there you will find,
That no man need take them, but who has a mind,
For which we must say that his Majesty’s kind. 
          Which, &c.

Now God bless the Drapier who open’d our eyes! 
I’m sure, by his book, that the writer is wise: 
He shows us the cheat, from the end to the rise. 
          Which, &c.

Nay, farther, he shows it a very hard case,
That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race,
Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place. 
          Which, &c.

That he and his halfpence should come to weigh down
Our subjects so loyal and true to the crown: 
But I hope, after all, that they will be his own. 
          Which, &c.

This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods,
And a very good book ’tis against Mr. Wood’s,
If you stand true together, he’s left in the suds. 
          Which, &c.

Ye shopmen, and tradesmen, and farmers, go read it,
For I think in my soul at this time that you need it;
Or, egad, if you don’t, there’s an end of your credit. 
          Which nobody can deny.

A SERIOUS POEM. 
UPON WILLIAM WOOD, BRAZIER, TINKER, HARD-WAREMAN, COINER, .FOUNDER, AND ESQUIRE.

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,
Yet we all should rejoice to be hewers of Wood. 
I own it has often provoked me to mutter,
That a rogue so obscure should make such a clutter;
But ancient philosophers wisely remark,
That old rotten wood will shine in the dark. 
The Heathens, we read, had gods made of wood,
Who could do them no harm, if they did them no good;
But this idol Wood may do us great evil,
Their gods were of wood, but our Wood is the devil. 
To cut down fine wood is a very bad thing;
And yet we all know much gold it will bring: 
Then, if cutting down wood brings money good store
Our money to keep, let us cut down one more. 
  Now hear an old tale.  There anciently stood
(I forget in what church) an image of wood;
Concerning this image, there went a prediction,
It would burn a whole forest; nor was it a fiction. 
’Twas cut into fagots and put to the flame,
To burn an old friar, one Forest by name,
My tale is a wise one, if well understood: 
Find you but the Friar; and I’ll find the Wood. 
  I hear, among scholars there is a great doubt,
From what kind of tree this Wood was hewn out,
Teague made a good pun by a brogue in his speech: 
And said, “By my shoul, he’s the son of a BEECH.” 
Some call him a thorn, the curse of the nation,
As thorns were design’d to be from the creation. 
Some think him cut out from the poisonous yew,
Beneath whose ill shade no plant ever grew. 
Some say he’s a birch, a thought very odd;
For none but a dunce would come under his rod. 
But I’ll tell the secret; and pray do not blab: 
He is an old stump, cut out of a crab;
And England has put this crab to a hard use,
To cudgel our bones, and for drink give us ver-juice;
And therefore his witnesses justly may boast,
That none are more properly knights of the post,
  But here Mr. Wood complains that we mock,
Though he may be a blockhead, he’s no real block. 
He can eat, drink, and sleep; now and then for a friend
He’ll not be too proud an old kettle to mend;
He can lie like a courtier, and think it no scorn,
When gold’s to be got, to forswear and suborn. 
He can rap his own raps and has the true sapience,
To turn a good penny to twenty bad halfpence. 
Then in spite of your sophistry, honest Will Wood
Is a man of this world, all true flesh and blood;
So you are but in jest, and you will not, I hope,
Unman the poor knave for the sake of a trope. 
’Tis a metaphor known to every plain thinker,
Just as when we say, the devil’s a tinker,
Which cannot, in literal sense be made good,
Unless by the devil we mean Mr. Wood. 
  But some will object that the devil oft spoke,
In heathenish times, from the trunk of an oak;
And since we must grant there never were known
More heathenish times, than those of our own;
Perhaps you will say, ’tis the devil that puts
The words in Wood’s mouth, or speaks from his guts: 
And then your old arguments still will return;
Howe’er, let us try him, and see how he’ll burn: 
You’ll pardon me, sir, your cunning I smoke,
But Wood, I assure you, is no heart of oak;
And, instead of the devil, this son of perdition
Hath join’d with himself two hags in commission. 
  I ne’er could endure my talent to smother: 
I told you one tale, and I’ll tell you another. 
A joiner to fasten a saint in a niche,
Bored a large auger-hole in the image’s breech;
But, finding the statue to make no complaint,
He would ne’er be convinced it was a true saint. 
When the true Wood arrives, as he soon will, no doubt,
(For that’s but a sham Wood they carry about;)
What stuff he is made of you quickly may find
If you make the same trial and bore him behind. 
I’ll hold you a groat, when you wimble his bum,
He’ll bellow as loud as the de’il in a drum. 
From me, I declare you shall have no denial;
And there can be no harm in making a trial: 
And when to the joy of your hearts he has roar’d,
You may show him about for a new groaning board. 
  Now ask me a question.  How came it to pass
Wood got so much copper?  He got it by brass;
This brass was a dragon, (observe what I tell ye,)
This dragon had gotten two sows in his belly;
I know you will say this is all heathen Greek. 
I own it, and therefore I leave you to seek. 
  I often have seen two plays very good,
Call’d Love in a Tub, and Love in a Wood;
These comedies twain friend Wood will contrive
On the scene of this land very soon to revive. 
First, Love in a Tub:  Squire Wood has in store
Strong tubs for his raps, two thousand and more;
These raps he will honestly dig out with shovels,
And sell them for gold, or he can’t show his love else. 
Wood swears he will do it for Ireland’s good,
Then can you deny it is Love in a Wood? 
However, if critics find fault with the phrase,
I hope you will own it is Love in a Maze: 
For when to express a friend’s love you are willing,
We never say more than your love is a million;
But with honest Wood’s love there is no contending,
’Tis fifty round millions of love and a mending. 
Then in his first love why should he be crost? 
I hope he will find that no love is lost. 
  Hear one story more, and then I will stop. 
I dreamt Wood was told he should die by a drop: 
So methought he resolved no liquor to taste,
For fear the first drop might as well be his last. 
But dreams are like oracles; ’tis hard to explain ’em;
For it proved that he died of a drop at Kilmainham.
I waked with delight; and not without hope,
Very soon to see Wood drop down from a rope. 
How he, and how we at each other should grin! 
’Tis kindness to hold a friend up by the chin. 
But soft! says the herald, I cannot agree;
For metal on metal is false heraldry. 
Why that may be true; yet Wood upon Wood,
I’ll maintain with my life, is heraldry good.

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG,
UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN AGAINST WOOD’S HALFPENCE.

To the tune of “London is a fine town,” &c.

O Dublin is a fine town
  And a gallant city,
For Wood’s trash is tumbled down,
  Come listen to my ditty,
    O Dublin is a fine town, &c.

In full assembly all did meet
  Of every corporation,
From every lane and every street,
  To save the sinking nation. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The bankers would not let it pass
  For to be Wood’s tellers,
Instead of gold to count his brass,
  And fill their small-beer cellars. 
    O Dublin, &c.

And next to them, to take his coin
  The Gild would not submit,
They all did go, and all did join,
  And so their names they writ. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The brewers met within their hall,
  And spoke in lofty strains,
These halfpence shall not pass at all,
  They want so many grains. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The tailors came upon this pinch,
  And wish’d the dog in hell,
Should we give this same Wood an inch,
  We know he’d take an ell. 
    O Dublin, &c.

But now the noble clothiers
  Of honour and renown,
If they take Wood’s halfpence
  They will be all cast down. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The shoemakers came on the next,
  And said they would much rather,
Than be by Wood’s copper vext,
  Take money stampt on leather. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The chandlers next in order came,
  And what they said was right,
They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme
  Would soon be brought to light. 
    O Dublin, &c.

And that if Wood were now withstood,
  To his eternal scandal,
That twenty of these halfpence should
  Not buy a farthing candle. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The butchers then, those men so brave,
  Spoke thus, and with a frown;
Should Wood, that cunning scoundrel knave,
  Come here, we’d knock him down. 
    O Dublin, &c.

For any rogue that comes to truck
  And trick away our trade,
Deserves not only to be stuck,
  But also to be flay’d. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The bakers in a ferment were,
  And wisely shook their head;
Should these brass tokens once come here
  We’d all have lost our bread. 
    O Dublin, &c.

It set the very tinkers mad,
  The baseness of the metal,
Because, they said, it was so bad
  It would not mend a kettle. 
    O Dublin, &c.

The carpenters and joiners stood
  Confounded in a maze,
They seem’d to be all in a wood,
  And so they went their ways. 
    O Dublin, &c.

This coin how well could we employ it
  In raising of a statue,
To those brave men that would destroy it,
  And then, old Wood, have at you. 
    O Dublin, &c.

God prosper long our tradesmen then,
  And so he will I hope,
May they be still such honest men,
  When Wood has got a rope. 
    O Dublin is a fine town, &c.

VERSES. 
ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE, WHO CONDEMNED THE DRAPIER’S PRINTER.

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

ON THE SAME.

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

ON THE SAME.

THE JUDGE SPEAKS.

I’m not the grandson of that ass Quin;
Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin. 
My grandame had gallants by twenties,
And bore my mother by a ’prentice. 
This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he
In Christ-Church cut his throat for jealousy. 
And, since the alderman was mad you say,
Then I must be so too, ex traduce.

EPIGRAM.

IN ANSWER TO THE DEAN’S VERSES. 
ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS .

What though the Dean hears not the knell
Of the next church’s passing bell;
What though the thunder from a cloud,
Or that from female tongue more loud,
Alarm not; At the Drapier’s ear,
Chink but Wood’s halfpence, and he’ll hear.

HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XIV. 
PARAPHRASED AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND 1726.

THE INSCRIPTION.

  Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune’s waves,
  Ordain’d by fate to be the land of slaves;
  Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand;
  Thou fix’d of old, be now the moving land! 
  Although the metaphor be worn and stale,
  Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail;
  Let me suppose thee for a ship a while,
  And thus address thee in the sailor style.

Unhappy ship, thou art return’d in vain;
New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.
Look to thyself, and be no more the sport
Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port. 
Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide,
Like faithful counsellors, on either side. 
Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood,
The single pillar for his country’s good,
To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind,
Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind;
Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel
The waves impetuous enter at your keel;
Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke,
When the strong cords of union once are broke. 
Tom by a sudden tempest is thy sail,
Expanded to invite a milder gale. 
  As when some writer in a public cause
His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws,
While all is calm, his arguments prevail;
The people’s voice expands his paper sail;
Till power, discharging all her stormy bags,
Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags,
The nation scared, the author doom’d to death,
Who fondly put his trust in poplar breath. 
  A larger sacrifice in vain you vow;
There’s not a power above will help you now;
A nation thus, who oft Heaven’s call neglects,
In vain from injured Heaven relief expects. 
  ’Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke
That thy descent is from the British oak;
Or, when your name and family you boast,
From fleets triumphant o’er the Gallic coast. 
Such was Ierne’s claim, as just as thine,
Her sons descended from the British line;
Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains
On French records for twenty long campaigns;
Yet, from an empress now a captive grown,
She saved Britannia’s rights, and lost her own. 
  In ships decay’d no mariner confides,
Lured by the gilded stern and painted sides: 
Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight
In the gay trappings of a birth-day night: 
They on the gold brocades and satins raved,
And quite forgot their country was enslaved. 
Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just,
Nor change thy course with every sudden gust;
Like supple patriots of the modern sort,
Who turn with every gale that blows from court. 
  Weary and sea-sick, when in thee confined,
Now for thy safety cares distract my mind;
As those who long have stood the storms of state
Retire, yet still bemoan their country’s fate. 
Beware, and when you hear the surges roar,
Avoid the rocks on Britain’s angry shore. 
They lie, alas! too easy to be found;
For thee alone they lie the island round.

VERSES. 
ON THE SUDDEN DRYING UP OF ST. PATRICK’S WELL. 
NEAR TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLI.

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,
Had my own native Italy o’errun. 
Ierne, to the world’s remotest parts,
Renown’d for valour, policy, and arts. 
  Hither from Colchos, with the fleecy ore,
Jason arrived two thousand years before. 
Thee, happy island, Pallas call’d her own,
When haughty Britain was a land unknown:
From thee, with pride, the Caledonians trace
The glorious founder of their kingly race: 
Thy martial sons, whom now they dare despise,
Did once their land subdue and civilize;
Their dress, their language, and the Scottish name,
Confess the soil from whence the victors came. 
Well may they boast that ancient blood which runs
Within their veins, who are thy younger sons. 
A conquest and a colony from thee,
The mother-kingdom left her children free;
From thee no mark of slavery they felt: 
Not so with thee thy base invaders dealt;
Invited here to vengeful Morrough’s aid,
Those whom they could not conquer they betray’d. 
Britain, by thee we fell, ungrateful isle! 
Not by thy valour, but superior guile: 
Britain, with shame, confess this land of mine
First taught thee human knowledge and divine;
My prelates and my students, sent from hence,
Made your sons converts both to God and sense: 
Not like the pastors of thy ravenous breed,
Who come to fleece the flocks, and not to feed. 
  Wretched Ierne! with what grief I see
The fatal changes time has made in thee! 
The Christian rites I introduced in vain: 
Lo! infidelity return’d again! 
Freedom and virtue in thy sons I found,
Who now in vice and slavery are drown’d. 
  By faith and prayer, this crosier in my hand,
I drove the venom’d serpent from thy land: 
The shepherd in his bower might sleep or sing,
Nor dread the adder’s tooth, nor scorpion’s sting. 
  With omens oft I strove to warn thy swains,
Omens, the types of thy impending chains. 
I sent the magpie from the British soil,
With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoil;
To din thine ears with unharmonious clack,
And haunt thy holy walls in white and black. 
What else are those thou seest in bishop’s gear,
Who crop the nurseries of learning here;
Aspiring, greedy, full of senseless prate,
Devour the church, and chatter to the state? 
  As you grew more degenerate and base,
I sent you millions of the croaking race;
Emblems of insects vile, who spread their spawn
Through all thy land, in armour, fur, and lawn;
A nauseous brood, that fills your senate walls,
And in the chambers of your viceroy crawls! 
  See, where that new devouring vermin runs,
Sent in my anger from the land of Huns! 
With harpy-claws it undermines the ground,
And sudden spreads a numerous offspring round. 
Th’ amphibious tyrant, with his ravenous band,
Drains all thy lakes of fish, of fruits thy land. 
  Where is the holy well that bore my name? 
Fled to the fountain back, from whence it came! 
Fair Freedom’s emblem once, which smoothly flows,
And blessings equally on all bestows. 
Here, from the neighbouring nursery of arts,
The students, drinking, raised their wit and parts;
Here, for an age and more, improved their vein,
Their Phoebus I, my spring their Hippocrene. 
Discouraged youths! now all their hopes must fail,
Condemn’d to country cottages and ale;
To foreign prelates make a slavish court,
And by their sweat procure a mean support;
Or, for the classics, read “The Attorney’s Guide;”
Collect excise, or wait upon the tide. 
  Oh! had I been apostle to the Swiss,
Or hardy Scot, or any land but this;
Combined in arms, they had their foes defied,
And kept their liberty, or bravely died;
Thou still with tyrants in succession curst,
The last invaders trampling on the first;
Nor fondly hope for some reverse of fate,
Virtue herself would now return too late. 
Not half thy course of misery is run,
Thy greatest evils yet are scarce begun. 
Soon shall thy sons (the time is just at hand)
Be all made captives in their native land;
When for the use of no Hibernian born,
Shall rise one blade of grass, one ear of corn;
When shells and leather shall for money pass,
Nor thy oppressing lords afford thee brass,
But all turn leasers to that mongrel breed,
Who, from thee sprung, yet on thy vitals feed;
Who to yon ravenous isle thy treasures bear,
And waste in luxury thy harvest there;
For pride and ignorance a proverb grown,
The jest of wits, and to the court unknown. 
  I scorn thy spurious and degenerate line,
And from this hour my patronage resign.

ON READING DR. YOUNG’S SATIRE,. 
CALLED THE UNIVERSAL PASSION.
1726.

If there be truth in what you sing,
Such godlike virtues in the king;
A minister so fill’d with zeal
And wisdom for the commonweal;
If he who in the chair presides,
So steadily the senate guides;
If others, whom you make your theme,
Are seconds in the glorious scheme;
If every peer whom you commend,
To worth and learning be a friend;
If this be truth, as you attest,
What land was ever half so blest! 
No falsehood now among the great,
And tradesmen now no longer cheat: 
Now on the bench fair Justice shines;
Her scale to neither side inclines: 
Now Pride and Cruelty are flown,
And Mercy here exalts her throne;
For such is good example’s power,
It does its office every hour,
Where governors are good and wise;
Or else the truest maxim lies: 
For so we find all ancient sages
Decree, that, ad exemplum régis,
Through all the realm his virtues run,
Ripening and kindling like the sun. 
If this be true, then how much more
When you have named at least a score
Of courtiers, each in their degree,
If possible, as good as he? 
  Or take it in a different view. 
I ask (if what you say be true)
If you affirm the present age
Deserves your satire’s keenest rage;
If that same universal passion
With every vice has fill’d the nation: 
If virtue dares not venture down
A single step beneath the crown: 
If clergymen, to show their wit,
Praise classics more than holy writ: 
If bankrupts, when they are undone,
Into the senate-house can run,
And sell their votes at such a rate,
As will retrieve a lost estate: 
If law be such a partial whore,
To spare the rich, and plague the poor: 
If these be of all crimes the worst,
What land was ever half so curst?

THE DOG AND THIE.

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,
  And besides must be out of my wits.

Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal,
  But my master each day gives me bread;
You’ll fly, when you get what you came here to steal,
  And I must be hang’d in your stead.

The stockjobber thus from ’Change Alley goes down,
  And tips you the freeman a wink;
Let me have but your vote to serve for the town,
  And here is a guinea to drink.

Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent! 
  Your offers of bribery cease: 
I’ll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent,
  Or else I may forfeit my lease.

From London they come, silly people to chouse,
  Their lands and their faces unknown: 
Who’d vote a rogue into the parliament-house,
  That would turn a man out of his own?

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN MAD MULLINIX AND TIMOTH.

M. 
I own, ’tis not my bread and butter,
But prithee, Tim, why all this clutter? 
Why ever in these raging fits,
Damning to hell the Jacobites? 
When if you search the kingdom round,
There’s hardly twenty to be found;
No, not among the priests and friars ­
  T.  ’Twixt you and me, G ­d d ­n the liars!
  M.  The Tories are gone every man over
To our illustrious house of Hanover;
From all their conduct this is plain;
And then ­
  T.  G ­d d ­n the liars again! 
Did not an earl but lately vote,
To bring in (I could cut his throat)
Our whole accounts of public debts?
  M.  Lord, how this frothy coxcomb frets! [Aside.
  T.  Did not an able statesman bishop
This dangerous horrid motion dish up
As Popish craft? did he not rail on’t? 
Show fire and fagot in the tail on’t? 
Proving the earl a grand offender;
And in a plot for the Pretender;
Whose fleet, ‘tis all our friends’ opinion,
Was then embarking at Avignon?
  M.  These wrangling jars of Whig and Tory,
Are stale and worn as Troy-town story: 
The wrong, ’tis certain, you were both in,
And now you find you fought for nothing. 
Your faction, when their game was new,
Might want such noisy fools as you;
But you, when all the show is past,
Resolve to stand it out the last;
Like Martin Marall, gaping on,
Not minding when the song is done. 
When all the bees are gone to settle,
You clatter still your brazen kettle. 
The leaders whom you listed under,
Have dropt their arms, and seized the plunder;
And when the war is past, you come
To rattle in their ears your drum: 
And as that hateful hideous Grecian,
Thersites, (he was your relation,)
Was more abhorr’d and scorn’d by those
With whom he served, than by his foes;
So thou art grown the detestation
Of all thy party through the nation: 
Thy peevish and perpetual teasing
With plots, and Jacobites, and treason,
Thy busy never-meaning face,
Thy screw’d-up front, thy state grimace,
Thy formal nods, important sneers,
Thy whisperings foisted in all ears,
(Which are, whatever you may think,
But nonsense wrapt up in a stink,)
Have made thy presence, in a true sense,
To thy own side, so d ­n’d a nuisance,
That, when they have you in their eye,
As if the devil drove, they fly.
  T.  My good friend Mullinix, forbear;
I vow to G ­, you’re too severe: 
If it could ever yet be known
I took advice, except my own,
It should be yours; but, d ­n my blood! 
I must pursue the public good: 
The faction (is it not notorious?)
Keck at the memory of Glorious:
’Tis true; nor need I to be told,
My quondam friends are grown so cold,
That scarce a creature can be found
To prance with me his statue round. 
The public safety, I foresee,
Henceforth depends alone on me;
And while this vital breath I blow,
Or from above or from below,
I’ll sputter, swagger, curse, and rail,
The Tories’ terror, scourge, and flail.
  M.  Tim, you mistake the matter quite;
The Tories! you are their delight;
And should you act a different part,
Be grave and wise, ’twould break their heart. 
Why, Tim, you have a taste you know,
And often see a puppet-show: 
Observe the audience is in pain,
While Punch is hid behind the scene: 
But, when they hear his rusty voice,
With what impatience they rejoice! 
And then they value not two straws,
How Solomon decides the cause,
Which the true mother, which pretender
Nor listen to the witch of Endor. 
Should Faustus with the devil behind him
Enter the stage, they never mind him: 
If Punch, to stir their fancy, shows
In at the door his monstrous nose,
Then sudden draws it back again;
O what a pleasure mixt with pain! 
You every moment think an age,
Till he appears upon the stage: 
And first his bum you see him clap
Upon the Queen of Sheba’s lap: 
The Duke of Lorraine drew his sword;
Punch roaring ran, and running roar’d,
Reviled all people in his jargon,
And sold the King of Spain a bargain;
St. George himself he plays the wag on,
And mounts astride upon the dragon;
He gets a thousand thumps and kicks,
Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks;
In every action thrusts his nose;
The reason why, no mortal knows: 
In doleful scenes that break our heart,
Punch comes like you, and lets a fart. 
There’s not a puppet made of wood,
But what would hang him if they could;
While, teasing all, by all he’s teased,
How well are the spectators pleased! 
Who in the motion have no share,
But purely come to hear and stare;
Have no concern for Sabra’s sake,
Which gets the better, saint or snake,
Provided Punch (for there’s the jest)
Be soundly maul’d, and plague the rest. 
  Thus, Tim, philosophers suppose,
The world consists of puppet-shows;
Where petulant conceited fellows
Perform the part of Punchinelloes: 
So at this booth which we call Dublin,
Tim, thou’rt the Punch to stir up trouble in: 
You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout,
Put all your brother puppets out,
Run on in a perpetual round,
To tease, perplex, disturb, confound: 
Intrude with monkey grin and clatter
To interrupt all serious matter;
Are grown the nuisance of your clan,
Who hate and scorn you to a man: 
But then the lookers-on, the Tories,
You still divert with merry stories,
They would consent that all the crew
Were hang’d before they’d part with you. 
  But tell me, Tim, upon the spot,
By all this toil what hast thou got? 
If Tories must have all the sport,
I fear you’ll be disgraced at court.
  T.  Got?  D ­n my blood!  I frank my letters,
Walk to my place before my betters;
And, simple as I now stand here,
Expect in time to be a peer ­
Got?  D ­n me! why I got my will! 
Ne’er hold my peace, and ne’er stand still: 
I fart with twenty ladies by;
They call me beast; and what care I? 
I bravely call the Tories Jacks,
And sons of whores ­behind their backs. 
But could you bring me once to think,
That when I strut, and stare, and stink,
Revile and slander, fume and storm,
Betray, make oath, impeach, inform,
With such a constant loyal zeal
To serve myself and commonweal,
And fret the Tories’ souls to death,
I did but lose my precious breath;
And, when I damn my soul to plague ’em,
Am, as you tell me, but their May-game;
Consume my vitals! they shall know,
I am not to be treated so;
I’d rather hang myself by half,
Than give those rascals cause to laugh. 
  But how, my friend, can I endure,
Once so renown’d, to live obscure? 
No little boys and girls to cry,
“There’s nimble Tim a-passing by!”
No more my dear delightful way tread
Of keeping up a party hatred? 
Will none the Tory dogs pursue,
When through the streets I cry halloo? 
Must all my d ­n me’s! bloods and wounds! 
Pass only now for empty sounds? 
Shall Tory rascals be elected,
Although I swear them disaffected? 
And when I roar, “a plot, a plot!”
Will our own party mind me not? 
So qualified to swear and lie,
Will they not trust me for a spy? 
  Dear Mullinix, your good advice
I beg; you see the case is nice: 
O! were I equal in renown,
Like thee to please this thankless town! 
Or blest with such engaging parts
To win the truant schoolboys’ hearts! 
Thy virtues meet their just reward,
Attended by the sable guard. 
Charm’d by thy voice, the ’prentice drops
The snow-ball destined at thy chops;
Thy graceful steps, and colonel’s air,
Allure the cinder-picking fair.
  M.  No more ­in mark of true affection,
I take thee under my protection;
Your parts are good, ’tis not denied;
I wish they had been well applied. 
But now observe my counsel, (viz.)
Adapt your habit to your phiz;
You must no longer thus equip ye,
As Horace says optat ephippia;
(There’s Latin, too, that you may see
How much improved by Dr. ­)
I have a coat at home, that you may try: 
’Tis just like this, which hangs by geometry;
My hat has much the nicer air;
Your block will fit it to a hair;
That wig, I would not for the world
Have it so formal, and so curl’d;
’Twill be so oily and so sleek,
When I have lain in it a week,
You’ll find it well prepared to take
The figure of toupee and snake. 
Thus dress’d alike from top to toe,
That which is which ’tis hard to know,
When first in public we appear,
I’ll lead the van, keep you the rear: 
Be careful, as you walk behind;
Use all the talents of your mind;
Be studious well to imitate
My portly motion, mien, and gait;
Mark my address, and learn my style,
When to look scornful, when to smile;
Nor sputter out your oaths so fast,
But keep your swearing to the last. 
Then at our leisure we’ll be witty,
And in the streets divert the city;
The ladies from the windows gaping,
The children all our motions aping. 
Your conversation to refine,
I’ll take you to some friends of mine,
Choice spirits, who employ their parts
To mend the world by useful arts;
Some cleansing hollow tubes, to spy
Direct the zenith of the sky;
Some have the city in their care,
From noxious steams to purge the air;
Some teach us in these dangerous days
How to walk upright in our ways;
Some whose reforming hands engage
To lash the lewdness of the age;
Some for the public service go
Perpetual envoys to and fro: 
Whose able heads support the weight
Of twenty ministers of state. 
We scorn, for want of talk, to jabber
Of parties o’er our bonnyclabber;
Nor are we studious to inquire,
Who votes for manors, who for hire: 
Our care is, to improve the mind
With what concerns all human kind;
The various scenes of mortal life;
Who beats her husband, who his wife;
Or how the bully at a stroke
Knock’d down the boy, the lantern broke. 
One tells the rise of cheese and oatmeal;
Another when he got a hot-meal;
One gives advice in proverbs old,
Instructs us how to tame a scold;
One shows how bravely Audouin died,
And at the gallows all denied;
How by the almanack ’tis clear,
That herrings will be cheap this year.
  T.  Dear Mullinix, I now lament
My precious time so long mispent,
By nature meant for nobler ends: 
O, introduce me to your friends! 
For whom by birth I was design’d,
Till politics debased my mind;
I give myself entire to you;
G –­d d ­n the Whigs and Tories too!

“Having lately had an account, that a certain person of some distinction swore in a public coffee-house, that party should never die while he lived, (although it has been the endeavour of the best and wisest among us, to abolish the ridiculous appellations of Whig and Tory, and entirely to turn our thoughts to the good of our prince and constitution in church and state,) I hope those who are well-wishers to our country, will think my labour not ill-bestowed, in giving this gentleman’s principles the proper embellishments which they deserve; and since Mad Mullinix is the only Tory now remaining, who dares own himself to be so, I hope I may not be censured by those of his party, for making him hold a dialogue with one of less consequence on the other side.  I shall not venture so far as to give the Christian nick-name of the person chiefly concerned, lest I should give offence, for which reason I shall call him Timothy, and leave the rest to the conjecture of the world.” ­Intelligencer, No. viii.  See an account of this paper in “Prose Works,” ix, 311. ­W.  E. B.]

TIM AND THE FABLES.

MY meaning will be best unravell’d,
When I premise that Tim has travell’d. 
In Lucas’s by chance there lay
The Fables writ by Mr. Gay. 
Tim set the volume on a table,
Read over here and there a fable: 
And found, as he the pages twirl’d,
The monkey who had seen the world;
(For Tonson had, to help the sale,
Prefix’d a cut to every tale.)
The monkey was completely drest,
The beau in all his airs exprest. 
Tim, with surprise and pleasure staring,
Ran to the glass, and then comparing
His own sweet figure with the print,
Distinguish’d every feature in’t,
The twist, the squeeze, the rump, the fidge in all,
Just as they look’d in the original. 
“By ­,” says Tim, and let a f ­t,
“This graver understood his art. 
’Tis a true copy, I’ll say that for’t;
I well remember when I sat for’t. 
My very face, at first I knew it;
Just in this dress the painter drew it.” 
Tim, with his likeness deeply smitten,
Would read what underneath was written,
The merry tale, with moral grave;
He now began to storm and rave: 
“The cursed villain! now I see
This was a libel meant at me: 
These scribblers grow so bold of late
Against us ministers of state! 
Such Jacobites as he deserve ­
D ­n me!  I say they ought to starve.”

TOM AND DICK.

Tim and Dick had equal fame,
  And both had equal knowledge;
Tom could write and spell his name,
  But Dick had seen the college.

Dick a coxcomb, Tom was mad,
  And both alike diverting;
Tom was held the merrier lad,
  But Dick the best at farting.

Dick would cock his nose in scorn,
  But Tom was kind and loving;
Tom a footboy bred and born,
  But Dick was from an oven.

Dick could neatly dance a jig,
  But Tom was best at borees;
Tom would pray for every Whig,
  And Dick curse all the Tories.

Dick would make a woful noise,
  And scold at an election;
Tom huzza’d the blackguard boys,
  And held them in subjection.

Tom could move with lordly grace,
  Dick nimbly skipt the gutter;
Tom could talk with solemn face,
  But Dick could better sputter.

Dick was come to high renown
  Since he commenced physician;
Tom was held by all the town
  The deeper politician.

Tom had the genteeler swing,
  His hat could nicely put on;
Dick knew better how to swing
  His cane upon a button.

Dick for repartee was fit,
  And Tom for deep discerning;
Dick was thought the brighter wit,
  But Tom had better learning.

Dick with zealous noes and ayes
  Could roar as loud as Stentor,
In the house ’tis all he says;
  But Tom is eloquenter.

DICK, A MAGGOT.

As when, from rooting in a bin,
All powder’d o’er from tail to chin,
A lively maggot sallies out,
You know him by his hazel snout: 
So when the grandson of his grandsire
Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir,
With powder’d rump and back and side,
You cannot blanch his tawny hide;
For ’tis beyond the power of meal
The gipsy visage to conceal;
For as he shakes his wainscot chops,
Down every mealy atom drops,
And leaves the tartar phiz in show,
Like a fresh t ­d just dropp’d on snow.

CLAD ALL IN BROWN.

TO DICK.

  Foulest brute that stinks below,
    Why in this brown dost thou appear? 
  For wouldst thou make a fouler show,
    Thou must go naked all the year. 
Fresh from the mud, a wallowing sow
Would then be not so brown as thou.

  ’Tis not the coat that looks so dun,
    His hide emits a foulness out;
  Not one jot better looks the sun
    Seen from behind a dirty clout. 
So t ­ds within a glass enclose,
The glass will seem as brown as those.

  Thou now one heap of foulness art,
    All outward and within is foul;
  Condensed filth in every part,
    Thy body’s clothed like thy soul: 
Thy soul, which through thy hide of buff
Scarce glimmers like a dying snuff.

  Old carted bawds such garments wear,
    When pelted all with dirt they shine;
  Such their exalted bodies are,
    As shrivell’d and as black as thine. 
If thou wert in a cart, I fear
Thou wouldst be pelted worse than they’re.

  Yet, when we see thee thus array’d,
    The neighbours think it is but just,
  That thou shouldst take an honest trade,
    And weekly carry out the dust. 
Of cleanly houses who will doubt,
When Dick cries “Dust to carry out!”

DICK’S VARIETY.

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

TRAULUS.  PART I.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN.
1730.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRAULUS.  PART II.

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

A FABLE OF THE LION. 
AND OTHER BEASTS.

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

ON THE IRISH BISHOPS. 1731.

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

HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX.

ADDRESSED TO HUMPHRY FRENCH, ESQ.. 
LATE LORD MAYOR OF DUBLIN.

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

ON MR. PULTENEY’S BEING PUT OUT OF THE COUNCI.

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

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

ON THE WORDS BROTHER PROTESTANTS AND FELLOW CHRISTIANS, SO FAMILIARLY USED BY THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REPEAL OF THE TEST-ACT IN IRELAND. 1733.

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

BETTESWORTH’S EXULTATION.

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

AN EPIGRAM.

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

AN EPIGRAM. 
INSCRIBED TO THE HONOURABLE SERGEANT KITE.

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

THE YAHOO’S OVERTHROW, OR, THE KEVAN BAYL’S NEW BALLAD,
UPON SERGEANT KITE’S INSULTING THE DEAN

To the Tune of “Derry Down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ON THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL, AND BETTESWORTH.

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

ON THE IRISH CLUB. 1733.

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

ON NOISY TOM.

HORACE, PART OF BOOK I, SAT.  VI, PARAPHRASED. 1733

If Noisy Tom should in the senate prate,
“That he would answer both for church and state;
And, farther, to demonstrate his affection,
Would take the kingdom into his protection;”
All mortals must be curious to inquire,
Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire? 
“What! thou, the spawn of him who shamed our isle,
Traitor, assassin, and informer vile! 
Though by the female side, you proudly bring,
To mend your breed, the murderer of a king: 
What was thy grandsire, but a mountaineer,
Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year: 
Whose master Moore preserved him from the halter,
For stealing cows! nor could he read the Psalter! 
Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chase
Thy founder’s grandson, and usurp his place? 
Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood
Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?
Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,
In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"

ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERR-5

Make Rundle bishop! fie for shame! 
An Arian to usurp the name! 
A bishop in the isle of saints! 
How will his brethren make complaints! 
Dare any of the mitred host
Confer on him the Holy Ghost: 
In mother church to breed a variance,
By coupling orthodox with Arians? 
  Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew: 
What is there in it strange or new? 
For, let us hear the weak pretence,
His brethren find to take offence;
Of whom there are but four at most,
Who know there is a Holy Ghost;
The rest, who boast they have conferr’d it,
Like Paul’s Ephesians, never-heard it;
And, when they gave it, well ’tis known
They gave what never was their own. 
  Rundle a bishop! well he may;
He’s still a Christian more than they. 
  We know the subject of their quarrels;
The man has learning, sense, and morals. 
  There is a reason still more weighty;
’Tis granted he believes a Deity. 
Has every circumstance to please us,
Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus. 
But why should he with that be loaded,
Now twenty years from court exploded? 
And is not this objection odd
From rogues who ne’er believed a God? 
For liberty a champion stout,
Though not so Gospel-ward devout. 
While others, hither sent to save us
Come but to plunder and enslave us;
Nor ever own’d a power divine,
But Mammon, and the German line. 
  Say, how did Rundle undermine ’em? 
Who shew’d a better jus divinum? 
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice refused episcopari. 
  Our bishop’s predecessor, Magus,
Would offer all the sands of Tagus;
Or sell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay on hands: 
But all his gold could not avail
To have the spirit set to sale. 
Said surly Peter, “Magus, prithee,
Be gone:  thy money perish with thee.” 
Were Peter now alive, perhaps,
He might have found a score of chaps,
Could he but make his gift appear
In rents three thousand pounds a-year. 
  Some fancy this promotion odd,
As not the handiwork of God;
Though e’en the bishops disappointed
Must own it made by God’s anointed,
And well we know, the congé regal
Is more secure as well as legal;
Because our lawyers all agree,
That bishoprics are held in fee. 
  Dear Baldwin chaste, and witty Crosse,
How sorely I lament your loss! 
That such a pair of wealthy ninnies
Should slip your time of dropping guineas;
For, had you made the king your debtor,
Your title had been so much better.

EPIGRAM.

Friend Rundle fell, with grievous bump,
Upon his reverential rump. 
Poor rump! thou hadst been better sped,
Hadst thou been join’d to Boulter’s head;
A head, so weighty and profound,
Would needs have kept thee from the ground.

A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION CLUB.

1736

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,
Not a bow-shot from the college;
Half the globe from sense and knowledge
By the prudent architect,
Placed against the church direct,
Making good my grandam’s jest,
“Near the church” ­you know the rest.
  Tell us what the pile contains? 
Many a head that has no brains. 
These demoniacs let me dub
With the name of Legion Club. 
Such assemblies, you might swear,
Meet when butchers bait a bear: 
Such a noise, and such haranguing,
When a brother thief’s a hanging: 
Such a rout and such a rabble
Run to hear Jackpudding gabble: 
Such a crowd their ordure throws
On a far less villain’s nose. 
  Could I from the building’s top
Hear the rattling thunder drop,
While the devil upon the roof
(If the devil be thunder proof)
Should with poker fiery red
Crack the stones, and melt the lead;
Drive them down on every skull,
When the den of thieves is full;
Quite destroy that harpies’ nest;
How might then our isle be blest! 
For divines allow, that God
Sometimes makes the devil his rod;
And the gospel will inform us,
He can punish sins enormous. 
  Yet should Swift endow the schools,
For his lunatics and fools,
With a rood or two of land,
I allow the pile may stand. 
You perhaps will ask me, Why so? 
But it is with this proviso: 
Since the house is like to last,
Let the royal grant be pass’d,
That the club have right to dwell
Each within his proper cell,
With a passage left to creep in
And a hole above for peeping. 
  Let them, when they once get in,
Sell the nation for a pin;
While they sit a-picking straws,
Let them rave of making laws;
While they never hold their tongue,
Let them dabble in their dung: 
Let them form a grand committee,
How to plague and starve the city;
Let them stare, and storm, and frown,
When they see a clergy gown;
Let them, ere they crack a louse,
Call for th’orders of the house;
Let them, with their gosling quills,
Scribble senseless heads of bills;
We may, while they strain their throats,
Wipe our a ­s with their votes. 
  Let Sir Tom, that rampant ass,
Stuff his guts with flax and grass;
But before the priest he fleeces,
Tear the Bible all to pieces: 
At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy,
Worthy offspring of a shoeboy,
Footman, traitor, vile seducer,
Perjured rebel, bribed accuser,
Lay thy privilege aside,
From Papist sprung, and regicide;
Fall a-working like a mole,
Raise the dirt about thy hole. 
  Come, assist me, Muse obedient! 
Let us try some new expedient;
Shift the scene for half an hour,
Time and place are in thy power. 
Thither, gentle Muse, conduct me;
I shall ask, and you instruct me. 
  See, the Muse unbars the gate;
Hark, the monkeys, how they prate! 
  All ye gods who rule the soul:
Styx, through Hell whose waters roll! 
Let me be allow’d to tell
What I heard in yonder Hell. 
  Near the door an entrance gapes,
Crowded round with antic shapes,
Poverty, and Grief, and Care,
Causeless Joy, and true Despair;
Discord periwigg’d with snakes,’
See the dreadful strides she takes! 
  By this odious crew beset,
I began to rage and fret,
And resolved to break their pâtes,
Ere we enter’d at the gates;
Had not Clio in the nick
Whisper’d me, “Lay down your stick.” 
What! said I, is this a mad-house? 
These, she answer’d, are but shadows,
Phantoms bodiless and vain,
Empty visions of the brain. 
  In the porch Briareus stands,
Shows a bribe in all his hands;
Briareus the secretary,
But we mortals call him Carey.
When the rogues their country fleece,
They may hope for pence a-piece. 
  Clio, who had been so wise
To put on a fool’s disguise,
To bespeak some approbation,
And be thought a near relation,
When she saw three hundred brutes
All involved in wild disputes,
Roaring till their lungs were spent,
PRIVILEGE OF PARLIAMENT,
Now a new misfortune feels,
Dreading to be laid by th’ heels. 
Never durst a Muse before
Enter that infernal door;
Clio, stifled with the smell,
Into spleen and vapours fell,
By the Stygian steams that flew
From the dire infectious crew. 
Not the stench of Lake Avernus
Could have more offended her nose;
Had she flown but o’er the top,
She had felt her pinions drop. 
And by exhalations dire,
Though a goddess, must expire. 
In a fright she crept away,
Bravely I resolved to stay. 
When I saw the keeper frown,
Tipping him with half-a-crown,
Now, said I, we are alone,
Name your heroes one by one. 
  Who is that hell-featured brawler? 
Is it Satan?  No; ’tis Waller.
In what figure can a bard dress
Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? 
Honest keeper, drive him further,
In his looks are Hell and murther;
See the scowling visage drop,
Just as when he murder’d Throp.
  Keeper, show me where to fix
On the puppy pair of Dicks: 
By their lantern jaws and leathern,
You might swear they both are brethren: 
Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player,
Old acquaintance, are you there? 
Dear companions, hug and kiss,
Toast Old Glorious in your piss;
Tie them, keeper, in a tether,
Let them starve and stink together;
Both are apt to be unruly,
Lash them daily, lash them duly;
Though ’tis hopeless to reclaim them,
Scorpion’s rods, perhaps, may tame them. 
  Keeper, yon old dotard smoke,
Sweetly snoring in his cloak: 
Who is he?  ’Tis humdrum Wynne,
Half encompass’d by his kin: 
There observe the tribe of Bingham,
For he never fails to bring ’em;
And that base apostate Vesey
With Bishop’s scraps grown fat and greasy,
While Wynne sleeps the whole debate,
They submissive round him wait;
(Yet would gladly see the hunks,
In his grave, and search his trunks,)
See, they gently twitch his coat,
Just to yawn and give his vote,
Always firm in his vocation,
For the court against the nation. 
  Those are Allens Jack and Bob,
First in every wicked job,
Son and brother to a queer
Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. 
We must give them better quarter,
For their ancestor trod mortar,
And at Hoath, to boast his fame,
On a chimney cut his name. 
  There sit Clements, Dilks, and Carter;
Who for Hell would die a martyr. 
Such a triplet could you tell
Where to find on this side Hell? 
Gallows Carter, Dilks, and Clements,
Souse them in their own excrements. 
Every mischief’s in their hearts;
If they fail, ’tis want of parts. 
  Bless us!  Morgan, art thou there, man? 
Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman? 
Chairman to yon damn’d committee! 
Yet I look on thee with pity. 
Dreadful sight! what, learned Morgan
Metamorphosed to a Gorgon!
For thy horrid looks, I own,
Half convert me to a stone. 
Hast thou been so long at school,
Now to turn a factious tool? 
Alma Mater was thy mother,
Every young divine thy brother. 
Thou, a disobedient varlet,
Treat thy mother like a harlot! 
Thou ungrateful to thy teachers,
Who are all grown reverend preachers! 
Morgan, would it not surprise one! 
To turn thy nourishment to poison! 
When you walk among your books,
They reproach you with their looks;
Bind them fast, or from their shelves
They’ll come down to right themselves: 
Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus,
All in arms, prepare to back us: 
Soon repent, or put to slaughter
Every Greek and Roman author. 
Will you, in your faction’s phrase,
Send the clergy all to graze;
And to make your project pass,
Leave them not a blade of grass? 
How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! 
Thou, I hear, a pleasant rogue art. 
Were but you and I acquainted,
Every monster should be painted: 
You should try your graving tools
On this odious group of fools;
Draw the beasts as I describe them: 
Form their features while I gibe them;
Draw them like; for I assure you,
You will need no car’catura;
Draw them so that we may trace
All the soul in every face. 
  Keeper, I must now retire,
You have done what I desire: 
But I feel my spirits spent
With the noise, the sight, the scent. 
“Pray, be patient; you shall find
Half the best are still behind! 
You have hardly seen a score;
I can show two hundred more.” 
Keeper, I have seen enough. 
Taking then a pinch of snuff,
I concluded, looking round them,
“May their god, the devil, confound them!"

ON A PRINTER’S BEING SENT TO NEWGATE.

Better we all were in our graves,
Than live in slavery to slaves;
Worse than the anarchy at sea,
Where fishes on each other prey;
Where every trout can make as high rants
O’er his inferiors, as our tyrants;
And swagger while the coast is clear: 
But should a lordly pike appear,
Away you see the varlet scud,
Or hide his coward snout in mud. 
Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
He dares not venture to approach;
Yet still has impudence to rise,
And, like Domitian, leap at flies.

A VINDICATION OF THE LIBEL;. 
OR, A NEW BALLAD, WRITTEN BY A SHOE-BOY, ON AN ATTORNEY. 
WHO WAS FORMERLY A SHOE-BOY.

“Qui color ater erat, nunc est contrarius atro."

WITH singing of ballads, and crying of news,
With whitening of buckles, and blacking of shoes,
Did Hartley set out, both shoeless and shirtless,
And moneyless too, but not very dirtless;
Two pence he had gotten by begging, that’s all;
One bought him a brush, and one a black ball;
For clouts at a loss he could not be much,
The clothes on his back as being but such;
Thus vamp’d and accoutred, with clouts, ball, and brush,
He gallantly ventured his fortune to push: 
Vespasian thus, being bespatter’d with dirt,
Was omen’d to be Rome’s emperor for’t. 
But as a wise fiddler is noted, you know,
To have a good couple of strings to one bow;
So Hartley judiciously thought it too little,
To live by the sweat of his hands and his spittle: 
He finds out another profession as fit,
And straight he becomes a retailer of wit. 
One day he cried ­“Murders, and songs, and great news!”
Another as loudly ­“Here blacken your shoes!”
At Domvile’s full often he fed upon bits,
For winding of jacks up, and turning of spits;
Lick’d all the plates round, had many a grubbing,
And now and then got from the cook-maid a drubbing;
Such bastings effect upon him could have none: 
The dog will be patient that’s struck with a bone. 
Sir Thomas, observing this Hartley withal
So expert and so active at brushes and ball,
Was moved with compassion, and thought it a pity
A youth should be lost, that had been so witty: 
Without more ado, he vamps up my spark,
And now we’ll suppose him an eminent clerk! 
Suppose him an adept in all the degrees
Of scribbling cum dasho, and hooking of fees;
Suppose him a miser, attorney, per bill,
Suppose him a courtier ­suppose what you will ­
Yet, would you believe, though I swore by the Bible,
That he took up two news-boys for crying the libel?

A FRIENDLY APOLOGY FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF PEACE.  BY WAY OF DEFENCE OF HARTLEY HUTCHESON, ESQ.  BY JAMES BLACK-WELL, OPERATOR FOR THE FEET.

  But he by bawling news about,
  And aptly using brush and clout,
  A justice of the peace became,
  To punish rogues who do the same.

I sing the man of courage tried,
O’errun with ignorance and pride,
Who boldly hunted out disgrace
With canker’d mind, and hideous face;
The first who made (let none deny it)
The libel-vending rogues be quiet. 
  The fact was glorious, we must own,
For Hartley was before unknown,
Contemn’d I mean; ­for who would chuse
So vile a subject for the Muse? 
  ’Twas once the noblest of his wishes
To fill his paunch with scraps from dishes,
For which he’d parch before the grate,
Or wind the jack’s slow-rising weight,
(Such toils as best his talents fit,)
Or polish shoes, or turn the spit;
But, unexpectedly grown rich in
Squire Domvile’s family and kitchen,
He pants to eternize his name,
And takes the dirty road to fame;
Believes that persecuting wit
Will prove the surest way to it;
So with a colonel at his back,
The Libel feels his first attack;
He calls it a seditious paper,
Writ by another patriot Drapier;
Then raves and blunders nonsense thicker
Than alderman o’ercharged with liquor: 
And all this with design, no doubt,
To hear his praises hawk’d about;
To send his name through every street,
Which erst he roam’d with dirty feet;
Well pleased to live in future times,
Though but in keen satiric rhymes. 
  So, Ajax, who, for aught we know,
Was justice many years ago,
And minding then no earthly things,
But killing libellers of kings;
Or if he wanted work to do,
To run a bawling news-boy through;
Yet he, when wrapp’d up in a cloud,
Entreated father Jove aloud,
Only in light to show his face,
Though it might tend to his disgrace. 
  And so the Ephesian villain fired
The temple which the world admired,
Contemning death, despising shame,
To gain an ever-odious name.

AY AND NO. 
A TALE FROM DUBLIN. WRITTEN IN 1737.

At Dublin’s high feast sat Primate and Dean,
Both dress’d like divines, with band and face clean: 
Quoth Hugh of Armagh, “The mob is grown bold.” 
“Ay, ay,” quoth the Dean, “the cause is old gold.” 
“No, no,” quoth the Primate, “if causes we sift,
This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift.” 
The smart one replied, “There’s no wit in the case;
And nothing of that ever troubled your grace. 
Though with your state sieve your own notions you split,
A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit. 
It’s matter of weight, and a mere money job;
But the lower the coin the higher the mob. 
Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk,
That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke. 
The Irish dear joys have enough common sense,
To treat gold reduced like Wood’s copper pence. 
It is a pity a prelate should die without law;
But if I say the word ­take care of Armagh!”

A BALLAD.

Patrick astore, 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,
For I saw’d them reading upon the towlsel doore. 
      Sing, och, och, hoh, hoh.

Arrah! who was him reading? ’twas jauntleman in ruffles,
And Patrick’s bell she was ringing all in muffles;
She was ringing very sorry, her tongue tied up with rag,
Lorsha! and out of her shteeple there was hung a black flag.
      Sing, och, &c.

Patrick astore, who was him made this law? 
Some they do say, ’twas the big man of straw;
But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,
The devil he may take her into hell and Boult-her!
      Sing, och, &c.

Musha!  Why Parliament wouldn’t you maul,
Those carters, and paviours, and footmen, and all;
Those rascally paviours who did us undermine,
Och ma ceade millia mollighart on the feeders of swine! 
      Sing, och, &c.

A WICKED TREASONABLE LIBEL.

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,
His majesty first had a whore of a wife,
And surely the difference mounts to no more
Than, now he has gotten a wife of a whore. 
Now give me your judgment a very nice case on;
Each queen has a son, say which is the base one? 
Say which of the two is the right Prince of Wales,
To succeed, when, (God bless him,) his majesty fails;
Perhaps it may puzzle our loyal divines
To unite these two Protestant parallel lines,
From a left-handed wife, and one turn’d out of doors,
Two reputed king’s sons, both true sons of whores;
No law can determine it, which is first oars. 
But, alas! poor old England, how wilt thou be master’d;
For, take which you please, it must needs be a bastard.

EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY. 
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.

ON CARTHY’S TRANSLATION OF HORACE.

Containing, on one side, the original Latin, on the other, his own version.

This I may boast, which few e’er could,
Half of my book at least is good.

ON CARTHY MINOTAURUS.

How monstrous Carthy looks with Flaccus braced,
For here we see the man and there the beast.

ON THE SAME.

Once Horace fancied from a man,
He was transformed to a swan;
But Carthy, as from him thou learnest,
Has made the man a goose in earnest.

ON THE SAME.

Talis erat quondam Tithoni splendida conjux,
  Effulsit misero sic Dea juncta viro;
Hunc tandem imminuit sensim longaeva senectus,
  Te vero extinxit, Carole, prima dies.

IMITATED.

So blush’d Aurora with celestial charms,
So bloom’d the goddess in a mortal’s arms;
He sunk at length to wasting age a prey,
But thy book perish’d on its natal day.

AD HORATIUM CUM CARTHIO CONSTRICTUM.

Lectores ridere jubés dum Carthius astat? 
Iste procul depellit olens tibi Maevius omnes: 
Sic triviis veneranda diu, Jovis inclyta proles
Terruit, assumpto, mortales, Gorgonis ore.

IMITATED.

Could Horace give so sad a monster birth? 
Why then in vain he would excite our mirth;
His humour well our laughter might command,
But who can bear the death’s head in his hand?

AN IRISH EPIGRAM ON THE SAME.

While with the fustian of thy book,
  The witty ancient you enrobe,
You make the graceful Horace look
  As pitiful as Tom M’Lobe.
Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount,
  And Helicon, for if this log
Should stumble once into the fount,
  He’ll make it muddy as a bog.

ON CARTHY’S TRANSLATION OF LONGINUS.

High as Longinus to the stars ascends,
So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.

RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA.

Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras,
Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.

ON THE SAME.

What Midas touch’d became true gold, but then,
Gold becomes lead touch’d lightly by thy pen.

CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY.

For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy’s works, as they did not sell.

I must confess that I was somewhat warm,
I broke his teeth, but where’s the mighty harm? 
My work he said could ne’er afford him meat,
And teeth are useless where there’s nought to eat!

TO CARTHY.

On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his
Longinus.

Thus vagrant beggars, to extort
By charity a mean support,
Their sores and putrid ulcers show,
And shock our sense till we bestow.

TO CARTHY. 
On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his book of Poems.

How different from thine is Dunkin’s lot! 
Thou’rt curst for publishing, and he for not.

ON CARTHY’S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS,
UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS.

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

TO CARTHY.

Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal’d from light,
Piled in a garret, charm’d the author’s sight,
But forced from their retirement into day,
The tender embryos half unknown decay;
Thus lamps which burn’d in tombs with silent glare,
Expire when first exposed to open air.

TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. DUNKIN.

From the Gentleman’s London Magazine for January.

My lines to him you give; to speak your due,
’Tis what no man alive will say of you. 
Your works are like old Jacob’s speckled goats,
Known by the verse, yet better by the notes. 
Pope’s essays upon some for Young’s may pass,
But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass;
So green in different lights may pass for blue,
But what’s dyed black will take no other hue.

UPON CARTHY’S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR.

You have undone Horace, ­what should hinder
Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar? 
But ere you mount his fiery steed,
Beware, O Bard, how you proceed: ­
For should you give him once the reins,
High up in air he’ll turn your brains;
And if you should his fury check,
’Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.

DR. SWIFT WROTE THE FOLLOWING EPIGRAM.

On one Delacourt’s complimenting Carthy on his Poetry

Carthy, you say, writes well ­his genius true,
You pawn your word for him ­he’ll vouch for you. 
So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other’s bail.

POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN.

Some ancient authors wisely write,
That he who drinks will wake at night,
Will never fail to lose his rest,
And feel a streightness in his chest;
A streightness in a double sense,
A streightness both of breath and pence: 
Physicians say, it is but reasonable,
He that comes home at hour unseasonable,
(Besides a fall and broken shins,
Those smaller judgments for his sins;)
If, when he goes to bed, he meets
A teasing wife between the sheets,
’Tis six to five he’ll never sleep,
But rave and toss till morning peep. 
Yet harmless Betty must be blamed
Because you feel your lungs inflamed
But if you would not get a fever,
You never must one moment leave her. 
This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry’s and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,
If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You’d live till all your friends were weary of you. 
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn’d you what would follow. 
Are the Deanery sober hours? 
Be witness for me all ye powers. 
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me. 
Ask how I fret when she has beckon’d
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite. 
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I ’scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I’d think a quart a-piece unreasonable;
It strikes eleven, ­get out of doors. ­
This is my constant farewell
  Yours,
    J. S.

October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.

You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the provost.

LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE.

Resolve me this, ye happy dead,
Who’ve lain some hundred years in bed,
From every persecution free
That in this wretched life we see;
Would ye resume a second birth,
And choose once more to live on earth?

DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE. 
FOLLOWING LINES.

Thus spoke great Bedel from his tomb: 
“Mortal, I would not change my doom,
To live in such a restless state,
To be unfortunately great;
To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves,
To shine amidst a race of slaves;
To learn from wise men to complain
And only rise to fall again: 
No! let my dusty relics rest,
Until I rise among the blest.”

THE UPSTART.

The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the editor, ascribed to Swift. ­Scott.

“ ­ The rascal! that’s too mild a name;
Does he forget from whence he came? 
Has he forgot from whence he sprung? 
A mushroom in a bed of dung;
A maggot in a cake of fat,
The offspring of a beggar’s brat;
As eels delight to creep in mud,
To eels we may compare his blood;
His blood delights in mud to run,
Witness his lazy, lousy son! 
Puff’d up with pride and insolence,
Without a grain of common sense. 
See with what consequence he stalks! 
With what pomposity he talks! 
See how the gaping crowd admire
The stupid blockhead and the liar! 
How long shall vice triumphant reign? 
How long shall mortals bend to gain? 
How long shall virtue hide her face,
And leave her votaries in disgrace? 
­Let indignation fire my strains,
Another villain yet remains ­
Let purse-proud C ­n next approach;
With what an air he mounts his coach! 
A cart would best become the knave,
A dirty parasite and slave! 
His heart in poison deeply dipt,
His tongue with oily accents tipt,
A smile still ready at command,
The pliant bow, the forehead bland ­”
       
       

ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD.

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

TRANSLATION.

A thistle is the Scottish arms,
Which to the toucher threatens harms,
What are the arms of Waterford,
That no man touches ­but a ?

VERSES ON BLENHEIM.

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

See, here’s the grand approach,
That way is for his grace’s coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design’d,
They never smoke in any wind: 
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state. 
Thanks, sir, cried I, ’tis very fine,
But where d’ye sleep, or where d’ye dine? 
I find, by all you have been telling,
That ’tis a house, but not a dwelling.

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY.

Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, ’tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it? ­A judge or a peer.
      Which nobody can deny.

This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset. 
      Which nobody can deny.

O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience. 
      Which nobody can deny.

So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue. 
      Which nobody can deny.

Some sell it for profit, ’tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these. 
      Which nobody can deny.

There’s Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on’t in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We’ll paint ’em in colours as black as their crime. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But P ­r and copper L ­h we’ll excuse,
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse,
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes. 
      Which nobody can deny.

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 
UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift’s estimation by his opposition to Wood’s coinage.

BY HONEST JO.  ONE OF HIS GRACE’S FARMERS IN FINGAL.

I sing not of the Drapier’s praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country’s good;
Lord William’s grace of Dublin town, ’tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years. 
In ev’ry council and debate he stands for what is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate’er he loses by’t. 
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason. 
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more. 
Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross,
For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood’s dross. 
To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win,
He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin. 
Why, there’s my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows,
He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows. 
“A bishop,” says the noble squire, “I hate the very name,
To have two thousand pounds a-year ­O ’tis a burning shame! 
Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord!  And I to have but five!”
And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive: 
Now from his lordship’s grace I hold a little piece of ground,
And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound. 
Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, “Honest Jo,
Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go.” 
He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks,
For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man’s box. 
And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace,
Good lord!  I wonder how I dared to look him in the face: 
Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain;
He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain. 
“Then,” said my lord, “I’m very glad to see thee, honest friend,
I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend,
Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can;
I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man.” 
Then said his lordship with a smile, “I must have lawful cash,
I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood’s trash!”
“God bless your Grace,” I then replied, “I’d see him hanging higher,
Before I’d touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire.” 
To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke,
Our parsons read the Drapier’s books, and make us honest folk. 
And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found,
His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound;
“Why, sirrah,” said the noble squire, “how dare you see my face,
Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace.” 
And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack,
That only for the bishop’s lease ’twould quickly break my back. 
Then God preserve his lordship’s grace, and make him live as long
As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.

TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.

A POEM.

  Serus in coelum redeas, diuque
  Laetus intersis populo. ­HOR., Carm. I, ii, 45.

Great, good, and just, was once applied
To one who for his country died;
To one who lives in its defence,
We speak it in a happier sense. 
O may the fates thy life prolong! 
Our country then can dread no wrong: 
In thy great care we place our trust,
Because thou’rt great, and good, and just: 
Thy breast unshaken can oppose
Our private and our public foes: 
The latent wiles, and tricks of state,
Your wisdom can with ease defeat. 
When power in all its pomp appears,
It falls before thy rev’rend years,
And willingly resigns its place
To something nobler in thy face. 
When once the fierce pursuing Gaul
Had drawn his sword for Marius’ fall,
The godlike hero with a frown
Struck all his rage and malice down;
Then how can we dread William Wood,
If by thy presence he’s withstood? 
Where wisdom stands to keep the field,
In vain he brings his brazen shield;
Though like the sibyl’s priest he comes,
With furious din of brazen drums
The force of thy superior voice
Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.

“Great, good, and just! could I but rate
My griefs to thy too rigid fate,
I’d weep the world in such a strain
As it should deluge once again;
But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus’ hands than Argus’ eyes,
I’ll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds.”

See Napier’s “Montrose and the Covenanters,” i, 520. ­W.  E. B.]

TO THE CITIZENS.

And shall the Patriot who maintain’d your cause,
From future ages only meet applause? 
Shall he, who timely rose t’his country’s aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray’d? 
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn’d for parricide. 
  Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless’d,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress’d;
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil’d of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero’s heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief,
And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief,
But, if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to ­die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast,
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved? 
  If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don’t deserve, and won’t draw down your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence;
That stupid cant, “he went too far,” despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise: 
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free. 
    M. B.

PUNCH’S PETITION TO THE LADIES.

   ­Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,
  Auri sacra fames! ­VIRG., Aen., iii.

This poem partly relates to Wood’s halfpence, but resembles the style of Sheridan rather than of Swift.  Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton, when Lord-Lieutenant.  See also Verses on the Puppet-Show. ­Scott. See vol. i, . ­W.  E. B.

Fair ones who do all hearts command,
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite ­Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you’ll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh’invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land ­and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And call’d our chastest virgins whores;
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus nor the devil;
E’en us he hurried with full rage,
Most hoarsely squalling off the stage;
And faith our fright was very great
To see a minister of state,
Arm’d with power and fury come
To force us from our little home ­
We fear’d, as I am sure we had reason,
An accusation of high-treason;
Till, starting up, says Banamiere,
“Treason, my friends, we need not fear,
For ’gainst the Brass we used no power,
Nor strove to save the chancellor.
Nor did we show the least affection
To Rochford or the Meath election;
Nor did we sing, ­’Machugh he means.’”
“You villain, I’ll dash out your brains,
’Tis no affair of state which brings
Me here ­or business of the King’s;
I’m come to seize you all as debtors,
And bind you fast in iron fetters,
From sight of every friend in town,
Till fifty pound’s to me paid down.” 
­“Fifty!” quoth I, “a devilish sum;
But stay till the brass farthings come,
Then we shall all be rich as Jews,
From Castle down to lowest stews;
That sum shall to you then be told,
Though now we cannot furnish gold.” 
  Quoth he, “thou vile mis-shapen beast,
Thou knave, am I become thy jest;
And dost thou think that I am come
To carry nought but farthings home! 
Thou fool, I ne’er do things by halves,
Farthings are made for Irish slaves;
No brass for me, it must be gold,
Or fifty pounds in silver told,
That can by any means obtain
Freedom for thee and for thy train.” 
  “Vôtre très humble serviteur,
I’m not in jest,” said I, “I’m sure,
But from the bottom of my belly,
I do in sober sadness tell you,
I thought it was good reasoning,
For us fictitious men to bring
Brass counters made by William Wood
Intrinsic as we flesh and blood;
Then since we are but mimic men,
Pray let us pay in mimic coin.” 
  Quoth he, “Thou lovest, Punch, to prate,
And couldst for ever hold debate;
But think’st thou I have nought to do
But to stand prating thus with you? 
Therefore to stop your noisy parly,
I do at once assure you fairly,
That not a puppet of you all
Shall stir a step without this wall,
Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum,
Until you pay the foresaid sum.” 
Then marching off with swiftest race
To write dispatches for his grace,
The revel-master left the room,
And us condemn’d to fatal doom. 
Now, fair ones, if e’er I found grace,
Or if my jokes did ever please,
Use all your interest with your sec,
(They say he’s at the ladies’ beck,)
And though he thinks as much of gold
As ever Midas did of old: 
Your charms I’m sure can never fail,
Your eyes must influence, must prevail;
At your command he’ll set us free,
Let us to you owe liberty. 
Get us a license now to play,
And we’ll in duty ever pray.

EPIGRAM.

Great folks are of a finer mould;
Lord! how politely they can scold! 
While a coarse English tongue will itch,
For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.

EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT.

ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET.

Lord Pam in the church (you’d you think it) kneel’d down;
When told that the Duke was just come to Town ­
His station despising, unawed by the place,
He flies from his God to attend to his Grace. 
To the Court it was better to pay his devotion,
Since God had no hand in his Lordship’s promotion.

EPIGRAM.

Behold! a proof of Irish sense;
  Here Irish wit is seen! 
When nothing’s left that’s worth defence,
  We build a magazine.