Chapter XII (5)

If Noisy Tom[1] 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[2] who shamed our isle, Traitor, assassin, and informer vile! Though by the female side,[3] you proudly bring, To mend your breed, the murderer of a king: What was thy grandsire,[4] but a mountaineer, Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year: Whose master Moore[5] 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,[6] and usurp his place? Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?[7] Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,[8] In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"[9]

[Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See _post_, p. 266.]

[Footnote 2: The father of Sir Thomas Prendergast, who engaged in a plot to murder King William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and made a baronet.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: Cadogan's family.--_F_.]

[Footnote 4: A poor thieving cottager under Mr. Moore, condemned at Clonmel assizes to be hanged for stealing cows.--_F_.]

[Footnote 5: The grandfather of Guy Moore, Esq., who procured him a pardon._--F._]

[Footnote 6: Guy Moore was fairly elected member of Parliament for Clonmel; but Sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party then prevailing, and since known by the title of parson-hunters, petitioned the House against him; out of which he was turned upon pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted to be.--_F_.]

[Footnote 7: "Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat."--_F_.]

[Footnote 8: Mr. George Faulkner. Mr. Sergeant Bettesworth, a member of the Irish Parliament, having made a complaint to the House of Commons against the "Satire on Quadrille," they voted Faulkner the printer into custody (who was confined closely in prison three days, when he was in a very bad state of health, and his life in much danger) for not discovering the author.--_F_.]

[Footnote 9: Among the poems, etc., preserved by Mr. Smith are verses on the same subject and person with these in the text. The verses are given in Swift's works, edit. Scott, xii, 448.--_W. E. B._]

ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY 1734-5

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[1] chaste, and witty Crosse,[2] 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.

[Footnote 1: Richard Baldwin, Provost of Trinity College in 1717. He left behind him many natural children.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Rector of St. Mary's Dublin, in 1722; before which time he had been chaplain to the Smyrna Company. See the Epistolary Correspondence, May 26, 1720.--_Scott_.]

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,[1] Making good my grandam's jest, "Near the church"--you know the rest.[2] Tell us what the pile contains? Many a head that has no brains. These demoniacs let me dub With the name of Legion[3] 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,[4] 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:[5] 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,[6] Crowded round with antic shapes, Poverty, and Grief, and Care, Causeless Joy, and true Despair; Discord periwigg'd with snakes,'[7] See the dreadful strides she takes! By this odious crew beset,[8] I began to rage and fret, And resolved to break their pates, Ere we enter'd at the gates; Had not Clio in the nick[9] 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,[10] Shows a bribe in all his hands; Briareus the secretary, But we mortals call him Carey.[11] 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[12] 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.[13] 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.[14] 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,[15] Dick the player,[15] 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,[16] Half encompass'd by his kin: There observe the tribe of Bingham,[17] 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,[18] 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;[19] 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,[20] 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![21] 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;[22] 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!"[23]

[Footnote 1: St. Andrew's Church, close to the site of the Parliament House.]

[Footnote 2: On a scrap of paper, containing the memorials respecting the
Dean's family, there occur the following lines, apparently the rough
draught of the passage in the text:
"Making good that proverb odd,
Near the church and far from God,
Against the church direct is placed,
Like it both in head and waist."--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: From the answer of the demoniac that the devils which possessed him were Legion.--St. Mark, v, 9.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Sir Thomas Prendergast, a prominent opponent of the clergy, and a servile supporter of the government. See the verses on "Noisy Tom," _ante_, p. 260.]

[Footnote 5: "Di quibus imperium est animarum umbraeque silentes Sit mihi fas audita loqui."--VIRG., _Aen_., vi, 264.]

[Footnote 6: "Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae;"--273.]

[Footnote 7:"----Discordia demens Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis."--281.]

[Footnote 8: "Corripit his subita trepidus, ----strictamque aciem venientibus offert."--290.]

[Footnote 9: "Et ni docta comes tenues sine corpore vitas."--VIRG., _Aen_., vi, 291.]

[Footnote 10: "Et centumgeminus Briareus."--287.]

[Footnote 11: The Right Honourable Walter Carey. He was secretary to the Duke of Dorset when lord-lieutenant of Ireland. The Duke of Dorset came to Ireland in 1731.]

[Footnote 12: "Two hundred" written by Swift in the margin.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 13: John Waller, Esq., member for the borough of Dongaile. He was grandson to Sir Hardress Waller, one of the regicide judges, and who concurred with them in passing sentence on Charles I. This Sir Hardressmarried the daughter and co-heir of John Dowdal of Limerick, in Ireland, by which alliance he became so connected with the country, that after the rebellion was over, the family made it their residence.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 14: Rev. Roger Throp, whose death was said to have been occasioned by the persecution which he suffered from Waller. His case was published by his brother, and never answered, containing such a scene of petty vexatious persecutions as is almost incredible; the cause being the refusal of Mr. Throp to compound, for a compensation totally inadequate, some of the rights of his living which affected Waller's estate. In 1739, a petition was presented to the House of Commons by his brother, Robert Throp, gentleman, complaining of this persecution, and applying to parliament for redress, relative to the number of attachments granted by the King's Bench, in favour of his deceased brother, and which could not be executed against the said Waller, on account of the privilege of Parliament, etc. But this petition was rejected by the House, _nem. con._ The Dean seems to have employed his pen against Waller. See a letter from Mrs. Whiteway to Swift, Nov. 15, 1735, edit. Scott, xviii, p. 414.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 15: Richard Tighe, so called because descended from a baker who supplied Cromwell's army with bread. Bettesworth is termed the _player_, from his pompous enunciation.]

[Footnote 16: "Right Honourable Owen Wynne, county of Sligo.—-Owen Wynne, Esq., borough of Sligo.--John Wynne, Esq., borough of Castlebar."]

[Footnote 17: "Sir John Bingham, Bart., county of Mayo.--His brother, Henry Bingham, sat in parliament for some time for Castlebar."]

[Footnote 18: John Allen represented the borough of Carysfort; Robert Allen the county of Wicklow. The former was son, and the latter brother to Joshua, the second Viscount Allen, hated and satirized by Swift, under the name of Traulus. The ancestor of the Allens, as has been elsewhere noticed, was an architect in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign; and was employed as such by many of the nobility, particularly Lord Howth. He settled in Ireland, and was afterwards consulted by Lord Stafford in some of his architectural plans.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 19: There were then two Clements in parliament, brothers, Nathaniel and Henry. Michael Obrien Dilks represented the borough of Castlemartye. He was barrack-master-general.]

[Footnote 20: Doctor Marcus Antonius (which Swift calls his "heathenish Christian name") Morgan, chairman to that committee to whom was referred the petition of the farmers, graziers, etc. against tithe agistment. On this petition the House reported, and agreed that it deserved the strongest support.]

[Footnote 21: Whose hair consisted of snakes, and who turned all she looked upon to stone.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 22: A suggestion that if the tithe of _agistment_ were abolished, the clergy might be sent to graze.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 23: On the margin of a Broadside containing this poem is
written by Swift:
"Except the righteous Fifty Two
To whom immortal honour's due,
Take them, Satan, as your due
All except the Fifty Two."--_Forster._
probably the number of those who opposed the Bill.--_W. E. B._]

ON A PRINTER'S[1] 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,[2] leap at flies.

[Footnote 1: Mr. Faulkner, for printing the "Proposal for the better Regulation and Improvement of Quadrille."]

[Footnote 2: "Inter initia principatus cotidie secretum sibi horarum sumere solebat, nec quicquam amplius quam muscas captare ac stilo praeacuto configere; ut cuidam interroganti, essetne quis intus cum Caesare, non absurde responsum sit a Vibio Crispo, _ne muscam quidem_" (Suet. 3).--_W. E. B._]

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."[1]

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[2] 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[3] 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[4] 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?

[Footnote 1: Variation from Ovid, "Met.," ii, 541: "Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: So in _Hudibras_, Pt. II, Canto II:
"_Vespasian_ being dawb'd with Durt,
Was destin'd to the Empire for't
And from a Scavinger did come
To be a mighty Prince in _Rome_."]

[Footnote 3: Squire Hartley Hutcheson, "that zealous prosecutor of hawkers and libels," who signed Faulkner's committal to prison. See "Prose Works," vii, 234.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Sir T. Domvile, patentee of the Hanaper office.--_F._]

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[1] 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 [2] fired The temple which the world admired, Contemning death, despising shame, To gain an ever-odious name.

[Footnote 1: Colonel Ker, a Scotchman, lieutenant-colonel to Lord Harrington's regiment of dragoons, who made a news-boy evidence against The printer.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: Herostratus, who set fire to the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, 356 B.C.--_W. E. B._]

AY AND NO

A TALE FROM DUBLIN.[1] 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!"

[Footnote 1: In 1737, the gold coin had sunk in current value to the amount of 6_d._ in each guinea, which made it the interest of the Irish dealers to send over their balances in silver. To bring the value of the precious metals nearer to a par, the Primate, Boulter, who was chiefly trusted by the British Government in the administration of Ireland, published a proclamation reducing the value of the gold coin threepence in each guinea. This scheme was keenly opposed by Swift; and such was the clamour excited against the archbishop, that his house was obliged to be guarded by soldiers. The two following poems relate to this controversy, which was, for the time it lasted, nearly as warm as that about Wood's halfpence. The first is said to be the paraphrase of a conversation which actually passed between Swift and the archbishop. The latter charged the Dean with inflaming the mob, "I inflame them?" retorted Swift, "were I to lift but a finger, they would tear you to pieces."--_Scott_.]

A BALLAD

Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town? By my soul there's bad news, for the gold she was pull'd down, The gold she was pull'd down, of that I'm very sure, For I saw'd them reading upon the towlsel[2] _doore_. Sing, och, och, hoh, hoh.[3]

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.[4] Sing, och, &c.

Patrick astore, who was him made this law? Some they do say, 'twas the big man of straw;[5] But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,[6] 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;[7] Those rascally paviours who did us undermine, Och ma ceade millia mollighart[8] on the feeders of swine! Sing, och, &c.

[Footnote 1: Astore, means my dear, my heart.]

[Footnote 2: The Tholsel, where criminals for the city were tried, and where proclamations, etc., were posted. It was invariably called the Touls'el by the lower class.]

[Footnote 3: It would appear that the chorus here introduced, was intended to chime with the howl, the _ululatus_, or funeral cry, of the Irish.]

[Footnote 4: Swift, it is said, caused a muffled peal to be rung from the steeple of St. Patrick's, on the day of the proclamation, and a black flag to be displayed from its battlements.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: The big man of straw, means the Duke of Dorset, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; he had only the name of authority, the essential power being vested in the primate.]

[Footnote 6: Jug-Joulter means Primate _Boulter_, whose name is played upon in the succeeding line. In consequence of the public dissatisfaction expressed at the lowering the gold coin, the primate became very unpopular.]

[Footnote 7: "Footmen" alludes to a supporter of the measure, said to have been the son or grandson of a servant.]

[Footnote 8: Means _"my hundred thousand hearty curses_ on the feeders of swine."]

A WICKED TREASONABLE LIBEL[1]

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.

[Footnote 1: So the following very remarkable verses are entitled, in a copy which exists in the Dean's hand-writing bearing the following characteristic memorandum on the back: "A traitorous libel, writ several years ago. It is inconsistent with itself. Copied September 9, 1735. I wish I knew the author, that I might hang him." And at the bottom of the paper is subjoined this postscript. "I copied out this wicked paper many years ago, in hopes to discover the traitor of an author, that I might inform against him." For the foundation of the scandals current during the reign of George I, to which the lines allude, see Walpole's Reminiscences of the Courts of George the first and second, chap, ii, at p. cii, Walpole's Letters, edit. Cunningham.--_W. E. B._]

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;[1] But Carthy, as from him thou learnest, Has made the man a goose in earnest.

[Footnote 1:
"Jam jam residunt cruribus asperae
Pelles, et album mutor in alitem
Superne, nascunturque leves
Per digitos humerosque plumae."
Lib. ii, Carm. xx.]

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 jubes 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.[1]
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.

[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become proverbial.--_Scott._]

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[1] 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?

[Footnote 1: Soon after Swift's acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it has been since restored.--_Scott._]

DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE FOLLOWING LINES

Thus spoke great Bedel[1] 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."

[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel's tomb lies within view of the window.]

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[1]

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

[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he said, of the ladies.--_Scott._]

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[1]

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

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;[2] 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.

[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See vol. i, p. 74.--W.E..B_]

[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation," and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No. 59.--_W. E. B._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] 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.[2] 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.

[Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written by Swift.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]

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;[l] 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.

[Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose:

"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[1]

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.

[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments, while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly their own.--_Scott._]

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, p. 169.--_W. E. B._