Then while, sir, you live at Gla.s.snevin, and find The benefit wish'd you, by friends who are kind; One night in the week, sir, your favour bestow, To drink with Delany and others your know: They constantly meet at Peg Radcliffe's together, Talk over the news of the town and the weather; Reflect on mishaps in church and in state, Digest many things as well as good meat; And club each alike that no one may treat.

This if you will grant without coach or chair, You may, in a trice, cross the way and be there; For Peg is your neighbour, as well as Delany, A housewifely woman full pleasing to any.

[Footnote 1: A pun on _Gla.s.snevin_--_Gla.s.s--ne, no, and_ vin, _wine._--_Scott._]

VERSES BY SHERIDAN

When to my house you come, dear Dean, Your humble friend to entertain, Through dirt and mire along the street, You find no sc.r.a.per for your feet; At which you stamp and storm and swell, Which serves to clean your feet as well.

By steps ascending to the hall, All torn to rags by boys and ball, With scatter'd fragments on the floor; A sad, uneasy parlour door, Besmear'd with chalk, and carved with knives, (A plague upon all careless wives,) Are the next sights you must expect, But do not think they are my neglect.

Ah that these evils were the worst!

The parlour still is farther curst.

To enter there if you advance, If in you get, it is by chance.

How oft by turns have you and I Said thus--"Let me--no--let me try-- This turn will open it, I'll engage"-- You push me from it in a rage.

Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling, Stamping, staring, fuming, grumbling, At length it opens--in we go-- How glad are we to find it so!

Conquests through pains and dangers please, Much more than those attain'd with ease.

Are you disposed to take a seat; The instant that it feels your weight, Out goes its legs, and down you come Upon your reverend deanship's b.u.m.

Betwixt two stools, 'tis often said, The sitter on the ground is laid; What praise then to my chairs is due, Where one performs the feat of two!

Now to the fire, if such there be, At present nought but smoke we see.

"Come, stir it up!"--"Ho, Mr. Joker, How can I stir it without a poker?"

"The bellows take, their batter'd nose Will serve for poker, I suppose."

Now you begin to rake--alack The grate has tumbled from its back-- The coals all on the hearth are laid-- "Stay, sir--I'll run and call the maid; She'll make the fire again complete-- She knows the humour of the grate."

"Pox take your maid and you together-- This is cold comfort in cold weather."

Now all is right again--the blaze Suddenly raised as soon decays.

Once more apply the bellows--"So-- These bellows were not made to blow-- Their leathern lungs are in decay, They can't even puff the smoke away."

"And is your reverence vext at that, Get up, in G.o.d's name, take your hat; Hang them, say I, that have no shift; Come blow the fire, good Doctor Swift.

If trifles such as these can tease you, Plague take those fools that strive to please you.

Therefore no longer be a quarrel'r Either with me, sir, or my parlour.

If you can relish ought of mine, A bit of meat, a gla.s.s of wine, You're welcome to it, and you shall fare As well as dining with the mayor."

"You saucy scab--you tell me so!

Why, b.o.o.by-face, I'd have you know I'd rather see your things in order, Than dine in state with the recorder.

For water I must keep a clutter, Or chide your wife for stinking b.u.t.ter; Or getting such a deal of meat As if you'd half the town to eat.

That wife of yours, the devil's in her, I've told her of this way of dinner Five hundred times, but all in vain-- Here comes a rump of beef again: O that that wife of yours would burst-- Get out, and serve the boarders first.

Pox take 'em all for me--I fret So much, I shall not eat my meat-- You know I'd rather have a slice."

"I know, dear sir, you are not nice; You'll have your dinner in a minute, Here comes the plate and slices in it-- Therefore no more, but take your place-- Do you fall to, and I'll say grace."

VERSES ADDRESSED TO SWIFT AND TO HIS MEMORY

TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS BIRTH-DAY[1]

While I the G.o.dlike men of old, In admiration wrapt, behold; Revered antiquity explore, And turn the long-lived volumes o'er; Where Cato, Plutarch, Flaccus, shine In every excellence divine; I grieve that our degenerate days Produce no mighty soul like these: Patriot, philosopher, and bard, Are names unknown, and seldom heard.

"Spare your reflection," Phoebus cries; "'Tis as ungrateful as unwise: Can you complain, this sacred day, That virtues or that arts decay?

Behold, in Swift revived appears: The virtues of unnumber'd years; Behold in him, with new delight, The patriot, bard, and sage unite; And know, Ierne in that name Shall rival Greece and Rome in fame."

[Footnote 1: Written by Mrs. Pilkington, at the time when she wished to be introduced to the Dean. The verses being presented to him by Dr.

Delany, he kindly accepted the compliment.--_Scott._]

ON DR. SWIFT 1733

No pedant Bentley proud, uncouth, Nor sweetening dedicator smooth, In one attempt has ever dared To sap, or storm, this mighty bard, Nor Envy does, nor ignorance, Make on his works the least advance.

For _this_, behold! still flies afar Where'er his genius does appear; Nor has _that_ aught to do above, So meddles not with Swift and Jove.

A faithful, universal fame In glory spreads abroad his name; p.r.o.nounces Swift, with loudest breath, Immortal grown before his death.

TO THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S A BIRTH-DAY POEM. NOV. 30, 1736

To you, my true and faithful friend, These tributary lines I send, Which every year, thou best of deans, I'll pay as long as life remains; But did you know one half the pain What work, what racking of the brain, It costs me for a single clause, How long I'm forced to think and pause; How long I dwell upon a proem, To introduce your birth-day poem, How many blotted lines; I know it, You'd have compa.s.sion for the poet.

Now, to describe the way I think, I take in hand my pen and ink; I rub my forehead, scratch my head, Revolving all the rhymes I read.

Each complimental thought sublime, Reduced by favourite Pope to rhyme, And those by you to Oxford writ, With true simplicity and wit.

Yet after all I cannot find One panegyric to my mind.

Now I begin to fret and blot, Something I schemed, but quite forgot; My fancy turns a thousand ways, Through all the several forms of praise, What eulogy may best become The greatest dean in Christendom.

At last I've hit upon a thought---- Sure this will do---- 'tis good for nought---- This line I peevishly erase, And choose another in its place; Again I try, again commence, But cannot well express the sense; The line's too short to hold my meaning: I'm cramp'd, and cannot bring the Dean in.

O for a rhyme to glorious birth!

I've hit upon't----The rhyme is earth---- But how to bring it in, or fit it, I know not, so I'm forced to quit it.

Again I try--I'll sing the man-- Ay do, says Phoebus, if you can; I wish with all my heart you would not; Were Horace now alive he could not: And will you venture to pursue, What none alive or dead could do?

Pray see, did ever Pope or Gay Presume to write on his birth-day; Though both were fav'rite bards of mine, The task they wisely both decline.

With grief I felt his admonition, And much lamented my condition: Because I could not be content Without some grateful compliment, If not the poet, sure the friend Must something on your birth-day send.

I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more: "Let every patriot him adore."

Alack-a-day, there's nothing in't-- Such stuff will never do in print.

Pray, reader, ponder well the sequel; I hope this epigram will take well.

In others, life is deem'd a vapour, In Swift it is a lasting taper, Whose blaze continually refines, The more it burns the more it shines.

I read this epigram again, 'Tis much too flat to fit the Dean.

Then down I lay some scheme to dream on a.s.sisted by some friendly demon.

I slept, and dream'd that I should meet A birth-day poem in the street; So, after all my care and rout, You see, dear Dean, my dream is out.

EPIGRAMS OCCASIONED BY DR. SWIFT'S INTENDED HOSPITAL FOR IDIOTS AND LUNATICS

I

The Dean must die--our idiots to maintain!

Perish, ye idiots! and long live the Dean!

II

O Genius of Hibernia's state, Sublimely good, severely great, How doth this latest act excel All you have done or wrote so well!