Part 20

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._

Fair ones who do all hearts command, And gently sway with fan in hand Your favourite--Punch a suppliant falls, And humbly for assistance calls; He humbly calls and begs you'll stop The gothic rage of Vander Hop, Wh'invades without pretence and right, Or any law but that of might, Our Pigmy land--and treats our kings Like paltry idle wooden things; Has beat our dancers out of doors, And call'd our chastest virgins whores; He has not left our Queen a rag on, Has forced away our George and Dragon, Has broke our wires, nor was he civil To Doctor Faustus nor the devil; E'en us he hurried with full rage, Most hoarsely squalling off the stage; And faith our fright was very great To see a minister of state, Arm'd with power and fury come To force us from our little home-- We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason, An accusation of high-treason; Till, starting up, says Banamiere, "Treason, my friends, we need not fear, For 'gainst the Brass we used no power, Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1] Nor did we show the least affection To Rochford or the Meath election; Nor did we sing,--'Machugh he means.'" "You villain, I'll dash out your brains, 'Tis no affair of state which brings Me here--or business of the King's; I'm come to seize you all as debtors, And bind you fast in iron fetters, From sight of every friend in town, Till fifty pound's to me paid down." --"Fifty!" quoth I, "a devilish sum; But stay till the brass farthings come, Then we shall all be rich as Jews, From Castle down to lowest stews; That sum shall to you then be told, Though now we cannot furnish gold." Quoth he, "thou vile mis-shapen beast, Thou knave, am I become thy jest; And dost thou think that I am come To carry nought but farthings home! Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves, Farthings are made for Irish slaves; No brass for me, it must be gold, Or fifty pounds in silver told, That can by any means obtain Freedom for thee and for thy train." "Votre très humble serviteur, I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure, But from the bottom of my belly, I do in sober sadness tell you, I thought it was good reasoning, For us fictitious men to bring Brass counters made by William Wood Intrinsic as we flesh and blood; Then since we are but mimic men, Pray let us pay in mimic coin." Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate, And couldst for ever hold debate; But think'st thou I have nought to do But to stand prating thus with you? Therefore to stop your noisy parly, I do at once assure you fairly, That not a puppet of you all Shall stir a step without this wall, Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum, Until you pay the foresaid sum." Then marching off with swiftest race To write dispatches for his grace, The revel-master left the room, And us condemn'd to fatal doom. Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace, Or if my jokes did ever please, Use all your interest with your sec,[2] (They say he's at the ladies' beck,) And though he thinks as much of gold As ever Midas[3] did of old: Your charms I'm sure can never fail, Your eyes must influence, must prevail; At your command he'll set us free, Let us to you owe liberty. Get us a license now to play, And we'll in duty ever pray.

[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant, who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, _rythmi gratia.--Scott._]

[Footnote 3: See Ovid, "Metam." xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM

Great folks are of a finer mould; Lord! how politely they can scold! While a coarse English tongue will itch, For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.

EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT[1]

ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2]

Lord Pam[3] in the church (you'd you think it) kneel'd down; When told that the Duke was just come to Town-- His station despising, unawed by the place, He flies from his God to attend to his Grace. To the Court it was better to pay his devotion, Since God had no hand in his Lordship's promotion.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, "The Storm," at p. 242.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French _Pamphile_. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that Title from the days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was promoted _non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus_. From a note in "The Toast," by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London, 1736.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM[1]

Behold! a proof of _Irish_ sense; Here _Irish_ wit is seen! When nothing's left that's worth defence, We build a magazine.

[Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician, Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, "Oh! Oh!" said the Dean, "This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my tablets"--and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above epigram.--_W. E. B._]

TRIFLES

GEORGE ROCHFORT'S VERSES FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, AT LARACOR, NEAR TRIM

MUSA CLONSHOGHIANA

That Downpatrick's Dean, or Patrick's down went, Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant; So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent, Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent. Our parsons agree here, as those did at Trent, Dan's forehead has got a most damnable dent, Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent. But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly bent, With your bloody ouns in one stanza pent; Does Jack's utter ruin at picket prevent, For an answer in specie to yours must be sent; So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent, And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint, Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment; But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent. Bellcampe, January 1, 1717.

A LEFT-HANDED LETTER[1]

TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718

Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue, That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung; We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst, Yet still are no wiser than we were at first.

_Pudet haec opprobria_, I freely must tell ye, _Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli._ Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer, You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2]; I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score; How many to answer? One, two, three, or four, But, because the three former are long ago past, I shall, for method-sake, begin with the last. You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe, Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow. Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field, Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield. So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them, Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, _Te Deum._ So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground, Comes off by out-laughing the company round: In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies, Having thus overthrown all our farther advances. My offers of peace you ill understood; Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good? 'Twas to teach you in modester language your duty; For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye; As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends. But we like Antæus and Hercules fight, The oftener you fall, the oftener you write: And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown, I'll first take you up, and then take you down; And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound The worst dunce in your school, till he's heaved from the ground.

I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of business. September 20, 1718.--I will send you the rest when I have leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.

[Footnote 1: The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility of printing it left-handed as it was written.--_H_.]

[Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see "Prose Works," v, 326.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, especially p. 404.--_W. E. B._]

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S IN ANSWER TO HIS LEFT-HANDED LETTER

Since your poetic prancer is turn'd into Cancer, I'll tell you at once, sir, I'm now not your man, sir; For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground? When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back; But I found out the way to your den by its track: From thence the black monster I drew, o' my conscience, And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense. When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue, You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew; Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair, Therefore turn about to the right, as you were; Then if with true courage your ground you maintain, My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain: Who's greater by far than great Alexander, As much as a teal surpasses a gander; As much as a game-cock’s excell'd by a sparrow; As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow: As much and much more as the most handsome man Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan. T. SHERIDAN.

This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called the left hand.

Oft have I been by poets told, That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old. Alas, thy numbers failing all, Poor Jonathan, how they do fall! Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell, Now jingle like a rusty bridle: Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet, Now limp upon their gouty feet: Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime, Are humbled by the tyrant, Time: Alas! what cannot Time subdue? Time has reduced my wine and you; Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings, Disabled both in our main springs; So that of late we two are grown The jest and scorn of all the town. But yet, if my advice be ta'en, We two may be as great again; I'll send you wings, you send me wine; Then you will fly, and I shall shine.

This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.

How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her; Little did she know, I was _ambidexter_. T. SHERIDAN.

TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN

REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR,

I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school, in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane. I am yours, Reverend Sir, to command, PAT. REYLY.

Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim. HOR., _Epist_. II, i, 117

AD AMICUM ERUDITUM THOMAM SHERIDAN

Deliciæ, Sheridan, Musarum, dulcis amice, Sic tibi propitius Permessi ad flumen Apollo Occurrat, seu te mimum convivia rident, Aequivocosque sales spargis, seu ludere versu Malles; dic, Sheridan, quisnam fuit ille deorum, Quae melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri Scrutandi? Tibi nascenti ad cunabula Pallas Astitit; et dixit, mentis praesaga futurae, Heu, puer infelix! nostro sub sidere natus; Nam tu pectus eris sine corpore, corporis umbra; Sed levitate umbram superabis, voce cicadam: Musca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura. Corpore sed tenui tibi quod natura negavit, Hoc animi dotes supplebunt; teque docente, Nec longum tempus, surget tibi docta juventus, Artibus egregiis animas instructa novellas. Grex hinc Paeonius venit, ecce, salutifer orbi; Ast, illi causas orant: his insula visa est Divinam capiti nodo constringere mitram. Natalis te horae non fallunt signa, sed usque Conscius, expedias puero seu laetus Apollo Nascenti arrisit; sive ilium frigidus horror Saturni premit, aut septem inflavere triones. Quin tu altè penitusque latentia semina cernis Quaeque diu obtundendo olim sub luminis auras Erumpent, promis; quo ritu saepè puella Sub cinere hesterno sopitos suscitat ignes. Te dominum agnoscit quocunque sub aëre natus: Quos indulgentis nimium custodia matris Pessundat: nam saepè vides in stipite matrem. Aureus at ramus, venerandae dona Sibyllae, Aeneae sedes tantùm patefecit Avernas; Saepè puer, tua quem tetigit semel aurea virga, Et coelum, terrasque videt, noctemque profundam.

Ad te, doctissime Delany, Pulsus à foribus Decani, Confugiens edo querelam, Pauper petens clientelam. Petebam Swift doctum patronum, Sed ille dedit nullum donum, Neque cibum neque bonum. Quaeris quàm malè sit stomacho num? Iratus valdè valdè latrat, Crumenicidam fermè patrat: Quin ergo releves aegrotum, Dato cibum, dato potum. Ita in utrumvis oculum, Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum.

Quaeso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam cum versiculis perlegere, quam cum fastidio abjecit et respuebat Decanus ille (inquam) lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes.

Reverende Vir,

De vestrâ benignitate et clementiâ in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi persuasum esset nobis, hanc epistolam reverentiae vestrae non scripsissem; quam profectò, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere partem nullus dubito. Saevit Boreas, mugiunt procellae, dentibus invitis maxillae bellum gerunt. Nec minus, intestino depraeliantibus tumultu visceribus, classicum sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, haec nostra querela. Proh Deûm atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule, nostro ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio, qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi, ad te, quasi ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene nôssem succurrere potuisse, mehercule, neque fores vestras pultûssem, neque limina tetigissem. Quàm longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens, despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In viâ nullum fuit solatium praeterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Maecenatis convivium, ita me picturâ pascens inani, saepius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum sacra fames? Haec omnia, quae nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires; nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.

Vivitur parvo malè, sed canebat Flaccus ut parvo benè: quod negamus: Pinguis et lautè saturatus ille Ridet inanes.

Pace sic dicam liceat poetae Nobilis laeti salibus faceti Usque jocundi, lepidè jocantis Non sine curâ.

Quis potest versus (meditans merendam, Prandium, coenam) numerare? quis non Quot panes pistor locat in fenestrâ Dicere mallet?

Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus; Latrat ingenti stomachus furore; Quaeso digneris renovare fauces, Docte Patrone.

Vestiant lanae tenues libellos, Vestiant panni dominum trementem, Aedibus vestris trepidante pennâ Musa propinquat.

Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam Esse promittit, nisi sit coacta Frigore iniquo.

Si modo possem! Vetat heu pudor me Plura, sed praestat rogitare plura, An dabis binos digitos crumenae im- ponere vestrae?

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise Have made a recantation, From your low bended knees arise; I hate such poor prostration.

'Tis bravery that moves the brave, As one nail drives another; If you from me would mercy have, Pray, Sir, be such another.

You that so long maintain'd the field With true poetic vigour; Now you lay down your pen and yield, You make a wretched figure.

Submit, but do't with sword in hand, And write a panegyric Upon the man you cannot stand; I'll have it done in lyric:

That all the boys I teach may sing The achievements of their Chiron; What conquests my stern looks can bring Without the help of iron.

A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen, From magazine of standish Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean, Than any sword we brandish.