[Footnote 3: John, Lord Carteret, then Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, since Earl of Granville, in right of his mother.]

[Footnote 4: The army in Ireland was lodged in strong buildings, called barracks. See "Verses on his own Death," and notes, vol. i, 247.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: A cant-word in Ireland for a poor country clergyman.]

[Footnote 6: My lady's waiting-woman.]

[Footnote 7: Two of Sir Arthur's managers.]

[Footnote 8: Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood.]

[Footnote 9: Ovids, Plutarchs, Homers.]

[Footnote 10: These four lines were added by Swift in his own copy of the Miscellanies, edit. 1732.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 11: Nicknames for my lady, see _ante_, pp. 94, 95.--_W. E. B._]

DRAPIER'S-HILL.[1] 1730

We give the world to understand, Our thriving Dean has purchased land; A purchase which will bring him clear Above his rent four pounds a-year; Provided to improve the ground, He will but add two hundred pound; And from his endless h.o.a.rded store, To build a house, five hundred more.

Sir Arthur, too, shall have his will, And call the mansion Drapier's-Hill; That, when a nation, long enslaved, Forgets by whom it once was saved; When none the Drapier's praise shall sing, His signs aloft no longer swing, His medals and his prints forgotten, And all his handkerchiefs [2] are rotten, His famous letters made waste paper, This hill may keep the name of Drapier; In spite of envy, flourish still, And Drapier's vie with Cooper's-Hill.

[Footnote 1: The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlach, which he took of Sir Arthur Acheson, whose seat lay between that and Market-Hill; and intended to build a house upon it, but afterwards changed his mind.]

[Footnote 2: Medals were cast, many signs hung up, and handkerchiefs made, with devices in honour of the Dean, under the name of M. B.

Drapier. See "Verses on his own death," vol. i.--_W. E. B._]

THE DEAN'S REASONS

FOR NOT BUILDING AT DRAPIER'S-HILL

I will not build on yonder mount; And, should you call me to account, Consulting with myself, I find It was no levity of mind.

Whate'er I promised or intended, No fault of mine, the scheme is ended; Nor can you tax me as unsteady, I have a hundred causes ready; All risen since that flattering time, When Drapier's-Hill appear'd in rhyme.

I am, as now too late I find, The greatest cully of mankind; The lowest boy in Martin's school May turn and wind me like a fool.

How could I form so wild a vision, To seek, in deserts, Fields Elysian?

To live in fear, suspicion, variance, With thieves, fanatics, and barbarians?

But here my lady will object; Your deanship ought to recollect, That, near the knight of Gosford[1] placed, Whom you allow a man of taste, Your intervals of time to spend With so conversable a friend, It would not signify a pin Whatever climate you were in.

'Tis true, but what advantage comes To me from all a usurer's plums; Though I should see him twice a-day, And am his neighbour 'cross the way: If all my rhetoric must fail To strike him for a pot of ale?

Thus, when the learned and the wise Conceal their talents from our eyes, And from deserving friends withhold Their gifts, as misers do their gold; Their knowledge to themselves confined Is the same avarice of mind; Nor makes their conversation better, Than if they never knew a letter.

Such is the fate of Gosford's knight, Who keeps his wisdom out of sight; Whose uncommunicative heart Will scarce one precious word impart: Still rapt in speculations deep, His outward senses fast asleep; Who, while I talk, a song will hum, Or with his fingers beat the drum; Beyond the skies transports his mind, And leaves a lifeless corpse behind.

But, as for me, who ne'er could clamber high, To understand Malebranche or Cambray; Who send my mind (as I believe) less Than others do, on errands sleeveless; Can listen to a tale humdrum, And with attention read Tom Thumb; My spirits with my body progging, Both hand in hand together jogging; Sunk over head and ears in matter.

Nor can of metaphysics smatter; Am more diverted with a quibble Than dream of words intelligible; And think all notions too abstracted Are like the ravings of a crackt head; What intercourse of minds can be Betwixt the knight sublime and me, If when I talk, as talk I must, It is but prating to a bust?

Where friendship is by Fate design'd, It forms a union in the mind: But here I differ from the knight In every point, like black and white: For none can say that ever yet We both in one opinion met: Not in philosophy, or ale; In state affairs, or planting kale; In rhetoric, or picking straws; In roasting larks, or making laws; In public schemes, or catching flies; In parliaments, or pudding pies.

The neighbours wonder why the knight Should in a country life delight, Who not one pleasure entertains To cheer the solitary scenes: His guests are few, his visits rare; Nor uses time, nor time will spare; Nor rides, nor walks, nor hunts, nor fowls, Nor plays at cards, or dice, or bowls; But seated in an easy-chair, Despises exercise and air.

His rural walks he ne'er adorns; Here poor Pomona sits on thorns: And there neglected Flora settles Her b.u.m upon a bed of nettles.

Those thankless and officious cares I used to take in friends' affairs, From which I never could refrain, And have been often chid in vain; From these I am recover'd quite, At least in what regards the knight.

Preserve his health, his store increase; May nothing interrupt his peace!

But now let all his tenants round First milk his cows, and after, pound; Let every cottager conspire To cut his hedges down for fire; The naughty boys about the village His crabs and sloes may freely pillage; He still may keep a pack of knaves To spoil his work, and work by halves; His meadows may be dug by swine, It shall be no concern of mine; For why should I continue still To serve a friend against his will?

[Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson's great-grandfather was Sir Archibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.]

THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL 1730

From distant regions Fortune sends An odd triumvirate of friends; Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend, Where never yet a codling ripen'd: Hither the frantic G.o.ddess draws Three sufferers in a ruin'd cause: By faction banish'd, here unite, A Dean,[1] a Spaniard,[2] and a Knight;[3]

Unite, but on conditions cruel; The Dean and Spaniard find it too well, Condemn'd to live in service hard; On either side his honour's guard: The Dean to guard his honour's back, Must build a castle at Drumlack;[4]

The Spaniard, sore against his will, Must raise a fort at Market-Hill.

And thus the pair of humble gentry At north and south are posted sentry; While in his lordly castle fixt, The knight triumphant reigns betwixt: And, what the wretches most resent, To be his slaves, must pay him rent; Attend him daily as their chief, Decant his wine, and carve his beef.

O Fortune! 'tis a scandal for thee To smile on those who are least worthy: Weigh but the merits of the three, His slaves have ten times more than he.

Proud baronet of Nova Scotia!

The Dean and Spaniard must reproach ye: Of their two fames the world enough rings: Where are thy services and sufferings?

What if for nothing once you kiss'd, Against the grain, a monarch's fist?

What if, among the courtly tribe, You lost a place and saved a bribe?

And then in surly mood came here, To fifteen hundred pounds a-year, And fierce against the Whigs harangu'd?

You never ventured to be hang'd.

How dare you treat your betters thus?

Are you to be compared with us?

Come, Spaniard, let us from our farms Call forth our cottagers to arms: Our forces let us both unite, Attack the foe at left and right; From Market-Hill's[5] exalted head, Full northward let your troops be led; While I from Drapier's-Mount descend, And to the south my squadrons bend.

New-River Walk, with friendly shade, Shall keep my host in ambuscade; While you, from where the basin stands, Shall scale the rampart with your bands.

Nor need we doubt the fort to win; I hold intelligence within.

True, Lady Anne no danger fears, Brave as the Upton fan she wears;[6]

Then, lest upon our first attack Her valiant arm should force us back, And we of all our hopes deprived; I have a stratagem contrived.

By these embroider'd high-heel shoes She shall be caught as in a noose: So well contriv'd her toes to pinch, She'll not have power to stir an inch: These gaudy shoes must Hannah [7] place Direct before her lady's face; The shoes put on, our faithful portress Admits us in, to storm the fortress, While tortured madam bound remains, Like Montezume,[8] in golden chains; Or like a cat with walnuts shod, Stumbling at every step she trod.

Sly hunters thus, in Borneo's isle, To catch a monkey by a wile, The mimic animal amuse; They place before him gloves and shoes; Which, when the brute puts awkward on: All his agility is gone; In vain to frisk or climb he tries; The huntsmen seize the grinning prize.

But let us on our first a.s.sault Secure the larder and the vault; The valiant Dennis,[9] you must fix on, And I'll engage with Peggy Dixon:[10]

Then, if we once can seize the key And chest that keeps my lady's tea, They must surrender at discretion!

And, soon as we have gain'd possession, We'll act as other conquerors do, Divide the realm between us two; Then, (let me see,) we'll make the knight Our clerk, for he can read and write.

But must not think, I tell him that, Like Lorimer [11] to wear his hat; Yet, when we dine without a friend, We'll place him at the lower end.

Madam, whose skill does all in dress lie, May serve to wait on Mrs. Leslie; But, lest it might not be so proper That her own maid should over-top her, To mortify the creature more, We'll take her heels five inches lower.

For Hannah, when we have no need of her, 'Twill be our interest to get rid of her; And when we execute our plot, 'Tis best to hang her on the spot; As all your politicians wise, Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.]

[Footnote 2: Colonel Henry Leslie, who served and lived long in Spain.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 3: Sir Arthur Acheson.]