Thus, when the gentle Spina found The thorn committed to her care, Received 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 ca.s.sock 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,[4] shall escape; To thee I often call'd in vain, Against that a.s.sa.s.sin in c.r.a.pe; 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 my empire I foresee, To tear thy hedges join in leagues, Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

"And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate, Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown, With hatchet blunter than thy pate, To hack my hallow'd timber down;

"When thou, suspended high in air, Diest on a more ign.o.ble tree, (For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,) Then, b.l.o.o.d.y caitiff! think on me."

[Footnote 1: A village near the seat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the Dean made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much admired by the knight. Yet the Dean, in one of his unaccountable humours, gave directions for cutting it down in the absence of Sir Arthur, who was, of course, highly incensed. By way of making his peace, the Dean wrote this poem; which had the desired effect.]

[Footnote 2: Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.]

[Footnote 3: Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, who were both friends of Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry.]

[Footnote 4: Sir Arthur Acheson.]

TO DEAN SWIFT BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728

Good cause have I to sing and vapour, For I am landlord to the Drapier: He, that of every ear's the charmer, Now condescends to be my farmer, And grace my villa with his strains; Lives such a bard on British plains?

No; not in all the British court; For none but witlings there resort, Whose names and works (though dead) are made Immortal by the Dunciad; And, sure as monument of bra.s.s, Their fame to future times shall pa.s.s; How, with a weakly warbling tongue, Of brazen knight they vainly sung; A subject for their genius fit; He dares defy both sense and wit.

What dares he not? He can, we know it, A laureat make that is no poet; A judge, without the least pretence To common law, or common sense; A bishop that is no divine; And c.o.xcombs in red ribbons shine: Nay, he can make, what's greater far, A middle state 'twixt peace and war; And say, there shall; for years together, Be peace and war, and both, and neither.

Happy, O Market-Hill! at least, That court and courtiers have no taste: You never else had known the Dean, But, as of old, obscurely lain; All things gone on the same dull track, And Drapier's-Hill been still Drumlack; But now your name with Penshurst vies, And wing'd with fame shall reach the skies.

DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND

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

And so I bade Sir Arthur write.

His manners would not let him wait, Lest we should think ourselves neglected, And so we see him at our gate Three days before he was expected,

After a week, a month, a quarter, And day succeeding after day, Says not a word of his departure, Though not a soul would have him stay.

I've said enough to make him blush, Methinks, or else the devil's in't; But he cares not for it a rush, Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, my dear, may let him know, In civil language, if he stays, How deep and foul the roads may grow, And that he may command the chaise.

Or you may say--"My wife intends, Though I should be exceeding proud, This winter to invite some friends, And, sir, I know you hate a crowd."

Or, "Mr. Dean--I should with joy Beg you would here continue still, But we must go to Aghnecloy;[1]

Or Mr. Moore will take it ill."

The house accounts are daily rising; So much his stay doth swell the bills: My dearest life, it is surprising, How much he eats, how much he swills.

His brace of puppies how they stuff!

And they must have three meals a-day, Yet never think they get enough; His horses too eat all our hay.

O! if I could, how I would maul His tallow face and wainscot paws, His beetle brows, and eyes of wall, And make him soon give up the cause!

Must I be every moment chid With [2] _Skinnybonia, Snipe_, and _Lean?_ O! that I could but once be rid Of this insulting tyrant Dean!

[Footnote 1: The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.]

[Footnote 2: The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. See "My Lady's Lamentation," next page.--_W. E. B._]

ON A VERY OLD GLa.s.s AT MARKET-HILL

Frail gla.s.s! thou mortal art as well as I; Though none can tell which of us first shall die.

ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT

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

EPITAPH IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool, Men call'd him d.i.c.ky Pearce; His folly served to make folks laugh, When wit and mirth were scarce.

Poor d.i.c.k, alas! is dead and gone, What signifies to cry?

d.i.c.kies enough are still behind, To laugh at by and by.

Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.