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It would be an exploit to brag on,
How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon;
How steady in the storm he sat,
And saved his oar, but lost his hat:
How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him)
Still brings us hares when he can catch them:
How skilfully Dan mends his nets;
How fortune fails him when he sets:
Or how the Dean delights to vex
The ladies, and lampoon their sex.
I might have told how oft Dean Percivale
Displays his pedantry unmerciful;
How haughtily he cocks his nose,
To tell what every school-boy knows;
And with his finger and his thumb,
Explaining, strikes opposers dumb:
But now there needs no more be said on't,
Nor how his wife, that female pedant,
Shows all her secrets of house-keeping;
For candles how she trucks her dripping;
Was forc'd to send three miles for yeast,
To brew her ale, and raise her paste;
Tells every thing that you can think of,
How she cur'd Charley of the chincough ;
What gave her brats and pigs the measles,
And how her doves were kill’d by weasels:
How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright
She had with dreams the other night.

But now, since I have gone so far on,
A word or two of Lord Chief Baron;
And tell how little weight he sets
On all Whig papers and Gazettes;
But for the politics of Pue,
Thinks every syllable is true.
And since he owns the King of Sweden
ls dead at last, without evading,
Now all his hopes are in the Czar:
“Why, Mu-covy is not so far:
Down the Black Sea, and up the Streights,
And in a month he's at your gates;
Perhaps, from what the packet brings,
By Christmas we shall see strange things.”
why should I tell of ponds and drains,

"a carps we met with for our pains; Of sparrows tame, and nuts innumerable To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble? *"you, who are a scholar, know How transient all things are below, How prone to change is human life Last might arriv'd Clem and his wife— This grand event hath broke our measures ; Their reign began with cruel seizures: The Dean must with his quilt supply The bed in which those tyrants lie: Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his jordan (My lady says she can't afford one): George is half-scard out of his wits, For Clem gets all the dainty bits. *esorth expect a different survey, *house will soon turn topsy-turvy:

ey talk of further alterations,

hich causes many speculations.


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

command, MARY.


A set of phrases learnt by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play, to laugh, or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why; Never to hold her tongue a minute, While all she prates has nothing in it; Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, And take his nonsense all for wit: Her learning mounts to read a song, But half the words pronouncing wrong; Hath every repartee in store She spoke ten thousand times before; Can ready compliments supply On all occasions, cut and dry; Such hatred to a parson's gown, The sight would put her in a swoon; For conversation well endued, She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing; Nor make a scruple to expose Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; Can at her morning tea run o'er The scandal of the day before; Improving hourly in her skill To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. In choosing lace, a critic nice, Knows to a groat the lowest price; Can in her female clubs dispute, What linen best the silk will suit; What colours each complexion match, And where with art to place a patch. If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, Can finely counterfeit a fright; So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, She ravishes all hearts to hear her. Can dextrously her husband teaze, By taking fits whene'er she please ; By frequent practice learns the trick At proper seasons to be sick ; Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, At once creating love and pity. * Molly happens to be careless

And but neglects to warm her hair lace,
She gets a cold as sure as death,
And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modest women can
Be so robustious, like a man.
In party, furious to her power;
A bitter Whig, or Tory sour;
Her arguments directly tend
Against the side she would defend;
Will prove herself a Tory plain,
From principles the Whigs maintain;
And to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topics from the Tories draws.
O yes! if any man can find
More virtues in a woman's mind,
Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;
She'll pay the charges to a farthing;
Take notice, she has my commission
To add them in the next edition;
They may out-sell a better thing:
So, halloo, boys; God save the king!


At Market-hill, as well appears,
By chronicle of ancient date,

There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.

Hither came every village maid,
And on the boughs her garland hung ;

And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure from satyrs sat and sung.

Sir Archibald, that valorous knight, The lord of all the fruitful plain,

Would come and listen with delight; For he was fond of rural strain.

(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name
Shall stand for ages on record,

By Scottish bards of highest fame,
Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.)

But time with iron teeth, I ween,
Has canker'd all its branches round;

No fruit or blossom to be seen,
Its head reclining towards the ground.

This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,
Which must, alas! no longer stand,

Behold the cruel Dean in scorn
Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.

Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,
Astonish'd, gave a dreadsul shriek;

And mother Tellus trembled so,
She scarce recover'd in a week.

The sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd, In prudence and compassion, sent

(For none could tell whose turn was next) Sad omens of the dire event.

The magpie, lighting on the stock, Stood chattering with incessant din;

And with her beak gave many a knock, To rouse and warn the nymph within.

The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,
The ruin of her ancient seat;

And fled in haste, with all her brood,
To seek a more secure retreat.

Last trolled forth the gentle swine,
To ease her itch against the stump,

And dismally was heard to whine,
All as she scrubb'd her measly rump.

The nymph who dwells in every tree, (If all be true that poets chant)

Condemn’d by fate's supreme decree, Must die with her expiring plant.

Thus, when the gentle Spina found The thorn committed to her care

Receiv'd its last and deadly wound, She fled, and vanish'd into air.

But from the root a dismal groan
First issuing struck the murderer's ears;

And, in a shrill revengeful tone,
This prophecy he trembling hears:

“Thou chief contriver of my fall, Relentless Dean, to mischief born ;

My kindred oft thine hide shall gall, Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.

“And thy confederate dame, who brags
That she condemn'd me to the fire,

Shall rend her petticoats to rags,
And wound her legs with every brier.

“Nor thou, Lord Arthur, shalt escape;
To thee I often call'd in vain,

Against that assassin in crape;
Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain.

“Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,
Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse;

Since you could see me treated so
(An old retainer to your house):

“May that fell Dean, by whose command
Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,

Not leave a thistle on thy land;
Then who will own thee for a Scot *

“Pigs and fanatics, cows, and teagues, Through all thy empire I foresee,

To tear thy hedges, join in leagues, Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

“And now, thou wretch ordain’d by fate,
Neal Gahagen, Hibernian clown,

With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hallow'd timber down;

“When thou, suspended high in air,
Dy'st on a more ignoble tree,

(For thou shalt steal thy landlord's mare),
Then, bloody caitiff! think on me.”


Occasioned by reading the following MAxim in Rochefou-
cAult, “Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trou-
vons toujours quelque chose quine nous déplait pas.”
“In the adversity of our best friends, we always find some-
thing that doth not displease us.”
As Rochefoucault his maxims drew
From nature, I believe them true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
“In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends;
While nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.”
If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.
We all behold with envious eyes |
Our equals rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low
I love my friend as well as you :
But why should he obstruct my view
Then let me have the higher post;
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill’d, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be over-topt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own
What poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he?
But, rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell ?
Her end when emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.
Vain human-kind fantastic race?
Thy various follies who can trace
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
*Tis all to me an usurpation.
I have no title to aspire;
Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine:
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six;

U u s

It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, “Pox take him and his wit!” I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own humorous biting way. Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, and show'd its use. St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows That I had some repute for prose; And, till they drove me out of date, Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortified my pride, And made me throw my pen aside; If with such talents heaven hath bless'd 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em : To all my foes, dear fortune, send Thy gifts; but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first; But this with envy makes me burst. Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore to our poem. The time is not remote when I Must by the course of nature die; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends: And, though 'tis hardly understood Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: “See how the Dean begins to break! Poor gentleman, he droops apace! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him, till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind; Forgets the place where last he din'd; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; He told them fifty times before. How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-sashion wit? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter: In half the time he talks them round, There must another set be found. “For poetry, he's past his prime: He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decay’d, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen;– But there's no talking to some men l’” And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years: “He's older than he would be reckon'd, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach too begins to fail: Last year we thought him strong and hale;

But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring !” They hug themselves, and reason thus: “It is not yet so bad with us!” In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how-d'ye's come of course, And servants answer, “Worse and worse!”) Would please them better, than to tell, That, “God be prais'd, the Dean is well.” Then he who prophesy'd the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: “You know I always fear'd the worst, And often told you so at first.” He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his predictions prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over. Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain; How many a message would he send: What hearty prayers that I should mend! Inquire what regimen I kept; What gave me ease, and how I slept? And more lament when I was dead, Than all the snivellers round my bed. My good companions, never fear; For, though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verify'd at last. Behold the fatal day arrive : “How is the Dean "– “He’s just alive.” Now the departing prayer is read; He hardly breathes—The Dean is dead. Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. “Oh! may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who's his heir 2" “I know no more than what the news is: 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses.” “To public uses there's a whim What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all—but first he dy’d. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood!” Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd; With elegies the town is cloy'd : Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame. “We must confess, his case was nice; But he would never take advice. Had he been rul’d, for aught appears, He might have liv'd these twenty years:

For, when we open'd him, we found
That all his vital parts were sound.”
From Dublin soon to London spread,
"Tis told at court, “The Dean is dead.”
And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen,
Runs laughing up to tell the queen.
The queen, so gracious, mild, and good,
Cries, “Is he gone 'tis time he shou’d.
He's dead, you say; then let him rot.
I'm glad the medals were forgot.
I promis'd him, I own; but when
I only was the princess then :
But now, as consort of the king,
You know, 'tis quite another thing.”
Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:
“Why, if he dy'd without his shoes,”
Cries Bob, “I’m sorry for the news:
Oh, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke were dead!”
Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains:
Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revis’d by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters;
Revive the libels born to die:
Which Pope must bear, as well as I.
Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.
St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
“I’m sorry—but we all must die!”
Indifference, clad in wisdom's guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies :
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt!
When we are lash'd they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.
The fools, my juniors by a year,
Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;
Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approach'd, to stand between:
The screen remov’d, their hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without dissembling.
My female friends, whose tender hearts
Have better learn'd to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps :
“The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps?)
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I’ll venture for the vole.)
Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall:
(I wish I knew what king to call.)
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend.”
“No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight;
And he's engag'd to-morrow night:

My Lady Club will take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He lov’d the Dean—(I lead a heart.)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come; he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place.”
Why do we grieve that friends should die?
No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene!
No farther mention of the Dean,
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now the favourite of Apollo?
Departed:—and his works must follow;
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.
Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Inquires for Swift in verse and prose.
Says Lintot, “I have heard the name;
He dy'd a year ago.”—“The same.”
He searches all the shop in vain.
“Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane:
I sent them, with a load of books,
Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's.
To fancy they could live a year !
I find you're but a stranger here.
The Dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
His way of writing now is past:.
The town has got a better taste.
I keep no antiquated stuff;
But spick and span I have enough.
Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em:
Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck, upon the queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend:
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
And Mr. Henley's last oration.
The hawkers have not got them yet,
Your honour please to buy a set?
“Here's Woolston's tracts, the twelfth edition;
'Tis read by every politician:
The country-members, when in town,
To all their boroughs send them down:
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart:
Those maids of honour who can read,
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The reverend author's good intention
Hath been rewarded with a pension:
He doth an honour to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God’s in Gloster,
That Moses was a grand impostor;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he hath not got a mitre+"

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