Part 9

[Footnote 10: The clown that cut down the old thorn at Market-Hill.]

[Footnote 11: See _ante_, "My Lady's Lamentation," p. 97.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 12: Lady Acheson was daughter of Philip Savage, M. P. for Wexford, and Chancellor of the Exchequer in Ireland.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 13: Understood here as _dainty, particular.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 14: A way of making butter for breakfast, by filling a bottle with cream, and shaking it till the butter comes.]

[Footnote 15: It is a common saying, when the milk burns, that the devil or the bishop has set his foot in it.]

[Footnote 16: See vol. i, p. 203.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 27: Fragments of stone.]

[Footnote 28: Virg., "Aeneidos," lib. vi.]

[Footnote 29: "Cynthius aurem Vellit et admonuit."--VIRG., _Ecloga_ vi, 3.]

[Footnote 30: "Post mediam noctem visus, cum somnia vera."--HOR., _Sat_, I, x, 33.]

[Footnote 31: In the bottle to make butter.]

[Footnote 32: The quantity of ale or beer brewed at one time.]

[Footnote 33: Mrs. Dixon, the housekeeper.]

[Footnote 34: "Hac tibi erunt artes."--VIRG., _Aen_., vi, 852.]

[Footnote 35: A very stupid, insolent, factious, deformed, conceited person; a vile pretender to poetry, preferred by the Duke of Grafton for his wit.]

TWELVE ARTICLES[1]

I LEST it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read.

II By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavour.

III When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you.

IV When I talk and you are heedless, I will show no anger needless.

V When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word.

VI When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose.

IX You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget.

X You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares.[2]

XII Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'Twill be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends, And continue special friends.

[Footnote 1: Addressed to Lady Acheson.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: That is, will do no harm--we shall not disagree. "At Blank-Blank Square;--for we will break no squares By naming streets." _Don Juan_, Canto XIII, st. xxv. See Mr. Coleridge's note on this; Byron's Works, edit. 1903.--_W. E. B._]

POLITICAL POETRY

PARODY

ON THE RECORDER OF BLESSINGTON'S ADDRESS TO QUEEN ANNE

_Mr. William Crowe, Recorder of Blessington's Address to her Majesty, as copied from the London Gazette_.

To the Queen's most Excellent Majesty,

The humble Address of the Sovereign, Recorder, Burgesses, and Freemen, of the Borough of Blessington.

May it please your Majesty, Though we stand almost last on the roll of boroughs of this your majesty's kingdom of Ireland, and therefore, in good manners to our elder brothers, press but late among the joyful crowd about your royal throne: yet we beg leave to assure your majesty, that we come behind none in our good affection to your sacred person and government; insomuch, that the late surprising accounts from Germany have filled us with a joy not inferior to any of our fellow-subjects.

We heard with transport that the English warmed the field to that degree, that thirty squadrons, part of the vanquished enemy, were forced to fly to water, not able to stand their fire, and drank their last draught in the Danube, for the waste they had before committed on its injured banks, thereby putting an end to their master's long-boasted victories: a glorious push indeed, and worthy a general of the Queen of England. And we are not a little pleased, to find several gentlemen in considerable posts of your majesty's army, who drew their first breath in this country, sharing in the good fortune of those who so effectually put in execution the command of your gallant, enterprizing general, whose twin-battles have, with his own title of Marlborough, given immortality to the otherwise perishing names of Schellenberg and Hogstete: actions that speak him born under stars as propitious to England as that he now wears, on both which he has so often reflected lustre, as to have now abundantly repaid the glory they once lent him. Nor can we but congratulate with a joy proportioned to the success of your majesty's fleet, our last campaign at sea, since by it we observe the French obliged to steer their wonted course for security, to their ports; and Gibraltar, the Spaniards' ancient defence, bravely stormed, possessed, and maintained by your majesty's subjects.

May the supplies for reducing the exorbitant power of France be such, as may soon turn your wreaths of laurel into branches of olive: that, after the toils of a just and honourable war, carried on by a confederacy of which your majesty is most truly, as of the faith, styled Defender, we may live to enjoy, under your majesty's auspicious government, the blessings of a profound and lasting peace; a peace beyond the power of him to violate, who, but for his own unreasonable conveniency, destructive always of his neighbours, never yet kept any. And, to complete our happiness, may your majesty again prove to _your own family_, what you have been so eminently to the true church, a nursing mother. So wish, and so pray, may it please your majesty, your majesty's most dutiful and loyal subjects, and devoted humble servants.

This Address was presented January 17, 1704-5.

MR. WILLIAM CROWE'S ADDRESS TO HER MAJESTY, TURNED INTO METRE

From a town that consists of a church and a steeple, With three or four houses, and as many people, There went an Address in great form and good order, Composed, as 'tis said, by Will Crowe, their Recorder.[1] And thus it began to an excellent tune: Forgive us, good madam, that we did not as soon As the rest of the cities and towns of this nation Wish your majesty joy on this glorious occasion. Not that we're less hearty or loyal than others, But having a great many sisters and brothers, Our borough in riches and years far exceeding, We let them speak first, to show our good breeding. We have heard with much transport and great satisfaction Of the victory obtain'd in the late famous action, When the field was so warm'd, that it soon grew too hot For the French and Bavarians, who had all gone to pot, But that they thought best in great haste to retire, And leap into the water for fear of the fire. But says the good river, Ye fools, plague confound ye, Do ye think to swim through me, and that I'll not drown ye? Who have ravish'd, and murder'd, and play'd such damn'd pranks, And trod down the grass on my much-injured banks? Then, swelling with anger and rage to the brink, He gave the poor Monsieur his last draught of drink. So it plainly appears they were very well bang'd, And that some may be drown'd, who deserved to be hang'd. Great Marlbro' well push'd: 'twas well push'd indeed: Oh, how we adore you, because you succeed! And now I may say it, I hope without blushing, That you have got twins, by your violent pushing; Twin battles I mean, that will ne'er be forgotten, But live and be talk'd of, when we're dead and rotten. Let other nice lords sculk at home from the wars, Prank'd up and adorn'd with garters and stars, Which but twinkle like those in a cold frosty night; While to yours you are adding such lustre and light, That if you proceed, I'm sure very soon 'Twill be brighter and larger than the sun or the moon: A blazing star, I foretell, 'twill prove to the Gaul, That portends of his empire the ruin and fall. Now God bless your majesty, and our Lord Murrough,[2] And send him in safety and health to his borough.

[Footnote 1: Subsequently M.P. for Blessington, in the Irish Parliament; he suffered some injustice from Wharton, when Lord-Lieutenant: he lost his senses, and died in 1710. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, pp. 39, 54; and Character of the Earl of Wharton, "Prose Works," v, p. 27.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Murragh Boyle, first Viscount Blessington, author of a tragedy, "The Lost Princess." He died in 1712.--_W. E. B._]

JACK FRENCHMAN'S LAMENTATION[1]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG

To the Tune of "I tell thee, Dick, where I have been."[2]

Ye Commons and Peers, Pray lend me your ears, I'll sing you a song, (if I can,) How Lewis le Grand Was put to a stand, By the arms of our gracious Queen Anne.

How his army so great, Had a total defeat, And close by the river Dender: Where his grandchildren twain, For fear of being slain, Gallop'd off with the Popish Pretender.

To a steeple on high, The battle to spy, Up mounted these clever young men;[3] But when from the spire, They saw so much fire, Most cleverly came down again.

Then on horseback they got All on the same spot, By advice of their cousin Vendosme, O Lord! cried out he, Unto young _Burgundy_, Would your brother and you were at home!

While this he did say, Without more delay, Away the young gentry fled; Whose heels for that work, Were much lighter than cork, Though their hearts were as heavy as lead.

Not so did behave Young Hanover brave,[4] In this bloody field I assure ye: When his war-horse was shot He valued it not, But fought it on foot like a fury.

Full firmly he stood, As became his high blood, Which runs in his veins so blue: For this gallant young man, Being a-kin to QUEEN ANNE, Did as (were she a man) she would do.

What a racket was here, (I think 'twas last year,) For a little misfortune in Spain! For by letting 'em win, We have drawn the puts in, To lose all they're worth this campaign.

Though _Bruges_ and Ghent To _Monsieur_ we lent, With interest they shall repay 'em; While _Paris_ may sing, With her sorrowful king, _Nunc dimittis_ instead of _Te Deum_.

From this dream of success, They'll awaken, we guess, At the sound of great Marlborough's drums, They may think, if they will, Of Ahnanza still, But 'tis Blenheim wherever he comes.

O _Lewis[5]_ perplex'd, What general next! Thou hast hitherto changed in vain; He has beat 'em all round, If no new one’s found, He shall beat 'em over again.

We'll let _Tallard_ out, If he'll take t'other bout; And much he's improved, let me tell ye, With _Nottingham_ ale At every meal, And good beef and pudding in belly.

But as losers at play, Their dice throw away, While the winners do still win on; Let who will command, Thou hadst better disband, For, old Bully, thy doctors[6] are gone.

[Footnote 1: This ballad, upon the battle of Oudenarde, was very popular, and the tune is often referred to as that of "Ye Commons and Peers."--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: "A Ballad upon a Wedding," by Sir John Suckling, occasioned by the marriage of Roger Boyle, first Lord Orrery, with Lady Margaret Howard, daughter to the Earl of Suffolk. Suckling's Works, edit. Hazlitt, vol. i, p. 42.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: In the Dutch accounts of the battle of Oudenarde, it is said that the Dukes of Burgundy and Berry, with the Chevalier de St. George, viewed the action at a distance from the top of a steeple, and fled, when the fate of the day turned against the French. Vendosme commanded the French upon that occasion.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 4: The Electoral Prince of Hanover, afterwards George II, behaved with great spirit in the engagement, and charged, at the head of Bulau's dragoons, with great intrepidity. His horse was shot under him, and he then fought as stated in the text. Smollett's "History of England," ii, _125.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Louis XIV.]

[Footnote 6: A cant word for false dice.--_Scott_.]

THE GARDEN PLOT

1709

When Naboth's vineyard[1] look'd so fine, The king cried out, "Would this were mine!" And yet no reason could prevail To bring the owner to a sale. Jezebel saw, with haughty pride, How Ahab grieved to be denied; And thus accosted him with scorn: "Shall Naboth make a monarch mourn? A king, and weep! The ground's your own; I'll vest the garden in the crown." With that she hatch'd a plot, and made Poor Naboth answer with his head; And when his harmless blood was spilt, The ground became his forfeit guilt.

[Footnote 1: This seems to allude to some oppressive procedure by the Earl of Wharton in relation to Swift's garden, which he called "Naboth's Vineyard," meaning a possession coveted by another person able to possess himself of it (i Kings, chap, xxi, verses 1-10). For some particulars of the garden, see "Prose Works," xi, 415.--_W. E. B._]

SID HAMET'S ROD

Poor Hall, renown'd for comely hair, Whose hands, perhaps, were not so fair, Yet had a Jezebel as near; Hall, of small scripture conversation, Yet, howe'er Hungerford's[1] quotation, By some strange accident had got The story of this garden-plot;--Wisely foresaw he might have reason To dread a modern bill of treason, If Jezebel should please to want His small addition to her grant: Therefore resolved, in humble sort, To begin first, and make his court; And, seeing nothing else would do, Gave a third part, to save the other two.

[Footnote 1: Probably John Hungerford, a member of the October Club. "Prose Works," v, 209.--_W. E. B._]

THE VIRTUES OF SID HAMET[1] THE MAGICIAN'S ROD. 1710[2]

The rod was but a harmless wand, While Moses held it in his hand; But, soon as e'er he laid it down, Twas a devouring serpent grown. Our great magician, Hamet Sid, Reverses what the prophet did: His rod was honest English wood, That senseless in a corner stood, Till metamorphos'd by his grasp, It grew an all-devouring asp; Would hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist. By the mere virtue of his fist: But, when he laid it down, as quick Resum'd the figure of a stick. So, to her midnight feasts, the hag Rides on a broomstick for a nag, That, rais'd by magic of her breech, O'er sea and land conveys the witch; But with the morning dawn resumes The peaceful state of common brooms. They tell us something strange and odd, About a certain magic rod,[3] That, bending down its top, divines Whene'er the soil has golden mines; Where there are none, it stands erect, Scorning to show the least respect: As ready was the wand of Sid To bend where golden mines were hid: In Scottish hills found precious ore,[4] Where none e'er look'd for it before; And by a gentle bow divine How well a cully's purse was lined; To a forlorn and broken rake, Stood without motion like a stake. The rod of Hermes [5] was renown'd For charms above and under ground; To sleep could mortal eyelids fix, And drive departed souls to Styx. That rod was a just type of Sid's, Which o'er a British senate's lids Could scatter opium full as well, And drive as many souls to hell. Sid's rod was slender, white, and tall, Which oft he used to fish withal; A PLACE was fasten'd to the hook, And many score of _gudgeons_ took; Yet still so happy was his fate, He caught his fish and sav'd his bait. Sid's brethren of the conj'ring tribe, A circle with their rod describe, Which proves a magical redoubt, To keep mischievous spirits out. Sid's rod was of a larger stride, And made a circle thrice as wide, Where spirits throng'd with hideous din, And he stood there to take them in; But when th'enchanted rod was broke, They vanish'd in a stinking smoke. Achilles' sceptre was of wood, Like Sid's, but nothing near so good; Though down from ancestors divine Transmitted to the heroes line; Thence, thro' a long descent of kings, Came an HEIRLOOM,[6] as Homer sings. Though this description looks so big, That sceptre was a sapless twig, Which, from the fatal day, when first It left the forest where 'twas nurs'd, As Homer tells us o'er and o'er, Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blossom bore. Sid's sceptre, full of juice, did shoot In golden boughs, and golden fruit; And he, the dragon never sleeping, Guarded each fair Hesperian Pippin. No hobby-horse, with gorgeous top, The dearest in Charles Mather's[7] shop, Or glittering tinsel of May Fair, Could with this rod of Sid compare.[8] Dear Sid, then why wert thou so mad To break thy rod like naughty lad?[9] You should have kiss'd it in your distress, And then return'd it to your mistress; Or made it a Newmarket switch,[10] And not a rod for thine own breech. But since old Sid has broken this, His next may be a rod in piss.

[Footnote 1: Cid Hamet Ben Eng'li, the supposed inspirer of Cervantes. See "Don Quixote," last chapter.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: When Swift came to London, in 1710, about the time the ministry was changed, his reception from Lord Treasurer Godolphin was, as he wrote to Archbishop King, 9th Sept., "altogether different from what he ever received from any great man in his life, altogether short, dry, and morose." To Stella he writes that this coldness had "enraged him so that he was almost vowing revenge." On the Treasurer's enforced retirement, Swift's resentment took effect in the above "lampoon" which was read at Harley's, on the 15th October, 1710, and "ran prodigiously," but was not then "suspected for Swift's." See Journal to Stella, Sept. 9 and Oct. 15.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The _virgula divina_, said to be attracted by minerals.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 4: Supposed to allude to the Union.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 5: Mercury's Caduceus, by which he could settle all disputes and differences.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Godolphin's favour arose from his connexion with the family of Marlborough by the marriage of his son to the Duke's daughter, Henrietta Churchill.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: An eminent toyman in Fleet Street.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 8: The allusion is to Godolphin's name, Sidney, and to his staff of office.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: A letter was sent him by the groom of the Queen's stables to desire he would break his staff, which would be the easiest way both to her Majesty and him. Mr. Smith, Chancellor of the Exchequer, happening to come in a little after, my lord broke his staff, and flung the pieces in the chimney, desiring Mr. Smith to witness that he had obeyed the Queen's commands. Swift to Archbishop King, Sept. 9, 1710.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 10: Lord Godolphin is satirized by Pope for a strong attachment to the turf. See his "Moral Essays," Epist. I, 81-5. "Who would not praise Patritio's high desert, His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart," "He thanks you not, his pride is in piquet, Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet."]

THE FAMOUS SPEECH-MAKER OF ENGLAND

OR BARON (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL'S CHARGE AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 17IO

Risum teneatis?--HORAT., _Ars Poetica_, 5.

From London to Exon, By special direction, Came down the world's wonder, Sir Salathiel Blunder, With a quoif on his head As heavy as lead; And thus opened and said:

Gentlemen of the Grand Inquest,