Part 24

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S GIVEN HIM AT QUILCA. BY SHERIDAN 1723

How few can be of grandeur sure! The high may fall, the rich be poor. The only favourite at court, To-morrow may be Fortune's sport; For all her pleasure and her aim Is to destroy both power and fame. Of this the Dean is an example, No instance is more plain and ample. The world did never yet produce, For courts a man of greater use. Nor has the world supplied as yet, With more vivacity and wit; Merry alternately and wise, To please the statesman, and advise. Through all the last and glorious reign, Was nothing done without the Dean; The courtier's prop, the nation's pride; But now, alas! he's thrown aside; He's quite forgot, and so's the queen, As if they both had never been. To see him now a mountaineer! Oh! what a mighty fall is here! From settling governments and thrones, To splitting rocks, and piling stones. Instead of Bolingbroke and Anna, Shane Tunnally, and Bryan Granna, Oxford and Ormond he supplies, In every Irish Teague he spies: So far forgetting his old station, He seems to like their conversation, Conforming to the tatter'd rabble, He learns their Irish tongue to gabble; And, what our anger more provokes, He's pleased with their insipid jokes; Then turns and asks them who do lack a Good plug, or pipefull of tobacco. All cry they want, to every man He gives, extravagant, a span. Thus are they grown more fond than ever, And he is highly in their favour. Bright Stella, Quilca's greatest pride, For them he scorns and lays aside; And Sheridan is left alone All day, to gape, and stretch, and groan; While grumbling, poor, complaining Dingley, Is left to care and trouble singly. All o'er the mountains spreads the rumour, Both of his bounty and good humour; So that each shepherdess and swain Comes flocking here to see the Dean. All spread around the land, you'd swear That every day we kept a fair. My fields are brought to such a pass, I have not left a blade of grass; That all my wethers and my beeves Are slighted by the very thieves. At night right loath to quit the park, His work just ended by the dark, With all his pioneers he comes, To make more work for whisk and brooms. Then seated in an elbow-chair, To take a nap he does prepare; While two fair damsels from the lawns, Lull him asleep with soft cronawns. Thus are his days in delving spent, His nights in music and content; He seems to gain by his distress, His friends are more, his honours less.

TO QUILCA A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR. 1725

Let me thy properties explain: A rotten cabin, dropping rain: Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke; Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke. Here elements have lost their uses, Air ripens not, nor earth produces: In vain we make poor Sheelah[1] toil, Fire will not roast, nor water boil. Through all the valleys, hills, and plains, The goddess Want, in triumph reigns; And her chief officers of state, Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.

THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE 1725

Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters; Not seen by our betters.

THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE

A companion with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews; Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.

A FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE BELONGING TO ---- ROOM IN T. C. D. IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT'S MANNER. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1725

----quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.[1]

This description of a scholar's room in Trinity College, Dublin, was found among Mr. Smith's papers. It is not in the Dean's hand, but seems to have been the production of Sheridan.

Imprimis, there's a table blotted, A tatter'd hanging all bespotted. A bed of flocks, as I may rank it, Reduced to rug and half a blanket. A tinder box without a flint, An oaken desk with nothing in't; A pair of tongs bought from a broker, A fender and a rusty poker; A penny pot and basin, this Design'd for water, that for piss; A broken-winded pair of bellows, Two knives and forks, but neither fellows. Item, a surplice, not unmeeting, Either for table-cloth, or sheeting; There is likewise a pair of breeches, But patch'd, and fallen in the stitches, Hung up in study very little, Plaster'd with cobweb and spittle, An airy prospect all so pleasing, From my light window without glazing, A trencher and a College bottle, Piled up on Locke and Aristotle. A prayer-book, which he seldom handles A save-all and two farthing candles. A smutty ballad, musty libel, A Burgersdicius[2] and a Bible. The C****[3] Seasons and the Senses By Overton, to save expenses. Item, (if I am not much mistaken,) A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon. A candlestick without a snuffer, Whereby his fingers often suffer. Two odd old shoes I should not skip here, Each strapless serves instead of slippers, And chairs a couple, I forgot 'em, But each of them without a bottom. Thus I in rhyme have comprehended His goods, and so my schedule's ended.

[Footnote 1: Virg., "Aen.," ii, 5.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Francis Burgersdicius, author of "An Argument to prove that the 39th section of the Lth chapter of the Statutes given by Queen Elizabeth to the University of Cambridge includes the whole Statutes of that University, with an answer to the Argument and the Author's reply." London, 1727. He was one of those logicians that Swift so disliked.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Illegible. John Overton, 1640-1708, a dealer in mezzotints.--_W. E. B._]

PALINODIA[1]

HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XVI

Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine, Whose verses far his rays outshine, Look down upon your quondam foe; O! let me never write again, If e'er I disoblige you, Dean, Should you compassion show.

Take those iambics which I wrote, When anger made me piping hot, And give them to your cook, To singe your fowl, or save your paste The next time when you have a feast; They'll save you many a book.

To burn them, you are not content; I give you then my free consent, To sink them in the harbour; If not, they'll serve to set off blocks, To roll on pipes, and twist in locks; So give them to your barber.

Or, when you next your physic take, I must entreat you then to make A proper application; 'Tis what I've done myself before, With Dan's fine thoughts and many more, Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do? It makes the weak the strong pursue, A goose attack a swan; It makes a woman, tooth and nail, Her husband's hands and face assail, While he's no longer man.

Though some, we find, are more discreet, Before the world are wondrous sweet, And let their husbands hector: But when the world's asleep, they wake, That is the time they choose to speak: Witness the curtain lecture.

Such was the case with you, I find: All day you could conceal your mind; But when St. Patrick's chimes Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse, When I engaged for better for worse,) You scolded with your rhymes.

Have done! have done! I quit the field, To you as to my wife, I yield: As she must wear the breeches: So shall you wear the laurel crown, Win it and wear it, 'tis your own; The poet's only riches.

[Footnote 1: Recantation.--_W. E. B._]

A LETTER TO THE DEAN WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY DR. SHERIDAN

You will excuse me, I suppose, For sending rhyme instead of prose. Because hot weather makes me lazy, To write in metre is more easy. While you are trudging London town, I'm strolling Dublin up and down; While you converse with lords and dukes, I have their betters here, my books: Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease, I choose companions as I please. I'd rather have one single shelf Than all my friends, except yourself; For, after all that can be said, Our best acquaintance are the dead. While you're in raptures with Faustina;[1] I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina. While you are starving there in state, I'm cramming here with butchers' meat. You say, when with those lords you dine, They treat you with the best of wine, Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay; Why, so can we, as well as they. No reason then, my dear good Dean, But you should travel home again. What though you mayn't in Ireland hope To find such folk as Gay and Pope; If you with rhymers here would share But half the wit that you can spare, I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days, You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays. Our weather’s good, our sky is clear; We've every joy, if you were here; So lofty and so bright a sky Was never seen by Ireland's eye! I think it fit to let you know, This week I shall to Quilca go; To see M'Faden's horny brothers First suck, and after bull their mothers; To see, alas! my wither'd trees! To see what all the country sees! My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves, My servants such a pack of thieves; My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks, My house in common to all folks, No cabbage for a single snail, My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail; My no green peas, my few green sprouts; My mother always in the pouts; My horses rid, or gone astray; My fish all stolen or run away; My mutton lean, my pullets old, My poultry starved, the corn all sold. A man come now from Quilca says, "_They_'ve[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;" But, what must fret and vex me more, He says, "_They_ stole the keys before. _They_'ve stol'n the knives from all the forks; And half the cows from half the sturks." Nay more, the fellow swears and vows, "_They_'ve stol'n the sturks from half the cows:" With many more accounts of woe, Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go: 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here.

[Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.--_Dublin Edition._]

[Footnote 2: _They_ is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, "They have stolen it." _Dublin Edition._--_W. E. B._]

AN INVITATION TO DINNER FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT 1727

I've sent to the ladies this morning to warn 'em, To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1] Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship Can take up with me, and my friend Stella's leanship.[2] I've got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret, That's just disengaged from the toils of a net: An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted, With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted: Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies, Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes; And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died, And now they're to lie in some crumbs that are fried. My wine will inspire you with joy and delight, 'Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright; An emblem of one that you love, I suppose, Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4] Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope, We'll wean you from sighing for England I hope; When we are together there's nothing that is dull, There's nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall. We've sworn to make out an agreeable feast, Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste.

Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers; you have a pencil in your pocket.

[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country house.]

[Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health. She died the January following.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, "Metam.," iii, 407.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable women in the world.--_F._]

ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S HOLE[1] WITH THE DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD

N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR. SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728

Fair ladies, number five, Who in your merry freaks, With little Tom contrive To feast on ale and steaks;

While he sits by a-grinning, To see you safe in Sot's Hole, Set up with greasy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole;

Alas! I never thought A priest would please your palate; Besides, I'll hold a groat He'll put you in a ballad;

Where I shall see your faces, On paper daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like graces, Than Venus like an owl.

And we shall take you rather To be a midnight pack Of witches met together, With Beelzebub in black.

It fills my heart with woe, To think such ladies fine Should be reduced so low, To treat a dull divine.

Be by a parson cheated! Had you been cunning stagers, You might yourselves be treated By captains and by majors.

See how corruption grows, While mothers, daughters, aunts, Instead of powder'd beaux, From pulpits choose gallants.

If we, who wear our wigs With fantail and with snake, Are bubbled thus by prigs; Z----ds! who would be a rake?

Had I a heart to fight, I'd knock the Doctor down; Or could I read or write, Egad! I'd wear a gown.

Then leave him to his birch;[3] And at the Rose on Sunday, The parson safe at church, I'll treat you with burgundy.

[Footnote 1: An ale-house in Dublin, famous for beef-steaks.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Doctor Thomas Sheridan.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.--_F._]

THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE BEAU

WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD BY DR. SHERIDAN

You little scribbling beau, What demon made you write? Because to write you know As much as you can fight.

For compliment so scurvy, I wish we had you here; We'd turn you topsy-turvy Into a mug of beer.

You thought to make a farce on The man and place we chose; We're sure a single parson Is worth a hundred beaux.

And you would make us vassals, Good Mr. Wig and Wings, To silver clocks and tassels; You would, you Thing of Things!

Because around your cane A ring of diamonds is set; And you, in some by-lane, Have gain'd a paltry grisette;

Shall we, of sense refined, Your trifling nonsense bear, As noisy as the wind, As empty as the air?

We hate your empty prattle; And vow and swear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle, Than twenty fops like you.

THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER

Why, how now, dapper black! I smell your gown and cassock, As strong upon your back, As Tisdall[1] smells of a sock.

To write such scurvy stuff! Fine ladies never do't; I know you well enough, And eke your cloven foot.

Fine ladies, when they write, Nor scold, nor keep a splutter: Their verses give delight, As soft and sweet as butter.

But Satan never saw Such haggard lines as these: They stick athwart my maw, As bad as Suffolk cheese.

[Footnote 1: Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland, who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson. He is several times mentioned in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the Journal.--_W. E. B._]

DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1] 1728

All you that would refine your blood, As pure as famed Llewellyn, By waters clear, come every year To drink at Ballyspellin.

Though pox or itch your skins enrich With rubies past the telling, 'Twill clear your skin before you've been A month at Ballyspellin.

If lady's cheek be green as leek When she comes from her dwelling, The kindling rose within it glows When she's at Ballyspellin.

The sooty brown, who comes from town, Grows here as fair as Helen; Then back she goes, to kill the beaux, By dint of Ballyspellin.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair As Rose,[2] or bright Dunkelling: And Mars might make a fair mistake, Were he at Ballyspellin.

We men submit as they think fit, And here is no rebelling: The reason's plain; the ladies reign, They're queens at Ballyspellin.

By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms, They have the way of quelling Such desperate foes as dare oppose Their power at Ballyspellin.

Cold water turns to fire, and burns I know, because I fell in A stream, which came from one bright dame Who drank at Ballyspellin.

Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance, To bring their Anne or Nell in, With so much grace, I'm sure no place Can vie with Ballyspellin.

No politics, no subtle tricks, No man his country selling: We eat, we drink; we never think Of these at Ballyspellin.

The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind, Do all come here pell-mell in; And they are sure to work their cure By drinking Ballyspellin.

Though dropsy fills you to the gills, From chin to toe though swelling, Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt A cure at Ballyspellin.

Death throws no darts through all these parts, No sextons here are knelling; Come, judge and try, you'll never die, But live at Ballyspellin.

Except you feel darts tipp'd with steel, Which here are every belle in: When from their eyes sweet ruin flies, We die at Ballyspellin.

Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care, Your sight, your taste, your smelling, Your ears, your touch, transported much Each day at Ballyspellin.

Within this ground we all sleep sound, No noisy dogs a-yelling; Except you wake, for Celia's sake, All night at Ballyspellin.

There all you see, both he and she, No lady keeps her cell in; But all partake the mirth we make, Who drink at Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone; I think I've none, Unless I should bring Hell in; But, since I'm here to Heaven so near, I can't at Ballyspellin!

[Footnote 1: A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, "whither Sheridan had gone to drink the waters with a new favourite lady." See note to the "Answer," _post_, p. 371.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Ross.--_Dublin Edition._]

ANSWER.[1] BY DR. SWIFT

Dare you dispute, you saucy brute, And think there's no refelling Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise You give to Ballyspellin?

Howe'er you flounce, I here pronounce, Your medicine is repelling; Your water's mud, and sours the blood When drunk at Ballyspellin.

Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs, You thither are compelling, Will back be sent worse than they went, From nasty Ballyspellin.

Llewellyn why? As well may I Name honest Doctor Pellin; So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes, To bring in Ballyspellin.

No subject fit to try your wit, When you went colonelling: But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues, You met at Ballyspellin.

Our lasses fair, say what you dare, Who sowins[2] make with shelling, At Market-hill more beaux can kill, Than yours at Ballyspellin.

Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript, To wash herself our well in, A bum so white ne'er came in sight At paltry Ballyspellin.

Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear; Of Holland not an ell in, No, not a rag, whate'er your brag, Is found at Ballyspellin.

But Tom will prate at any rate, All other nymphs expelling: Because he gets a few grisettes At lousy Ballyspellin.

There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane, Just o'er against the Bell inn; Where can you meet a lass so sweet, Round all your Ballyspellin?

We have a girl deserves an earl; She came from Enniskellin; So fair, so young, no such among The belles of Ballyspellin.

How would you stare, to see her there, The foggy mists dispelling, That cloud the brows of every blowse Who lives at Ballyspellin!

Now, as I live, I would not give A stiver or a skellin, To towse and kiss the fairest miss That leaks at Ballyspellin.

Whoe'er will raise such lies as these Deserves a good cudgelling: Who falsely boasts of belles and toasts At dirty Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone to all but one, Which is, our trees are felling; As proper quite as those you write, To force in Ballyspellin.

[Footnote 1: This answer, which seems to have been made while Swift was on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, "in a mere jest and innocent merriment," was resented by Sheridan as an affront on the lady and himself, "against all the rules of reason, taste, good nature, judgment, gratitude, or common manners." See "The History of the Second Solomon," "Prose Works," xi, 157. The mutual irritation soon passed, and the Dean and Sheridan resumed their intimate friendship.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: A food much used in Scotland, the north of Ireland, and other parts. It is made of oatmeal, and sometimes of the shellings of oats; and known by the names of sowins or flummery.--_F._]

AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS[1]

TO DR. HELSHAM [2]

Nov. 23, at night, 1731.

SIR,

When I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick; I'm so full of pity I never abuse sick; And the patientest patient ever you knew sick; Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick. I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick: She mended at first, but now she's anew sick. Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick. Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick. Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick? Lady Santry got out of the church[3] when she grew sick, And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick. Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick: For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick? Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick, Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick. Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene'er she does brew, sick. My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick, And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick: But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick: And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick: For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick, And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick. Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick; But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick, And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick. So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick; You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick; So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.

[Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a specimen of those _bagatelles_ for which the Dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.--_H._]

[Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath, Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as "the most eminent physician in this city and kingdom." He was one of the brilliant literary coterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.--_W. E. B._.]

[Footnote 3: St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia's day was usually performed.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: _Vide_ Grattan, _inter_ Belchamp and Clonshogh.--_Dublin Edition._]

TO DR. SHERIDAN

Nov. 23, at night.

If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick. This night I came home with a very cold dew sick, And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick; But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick, Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER