Put, finding me fo dull and dry fince,
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eufden's right as good as mine.

Nor do I ask for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake :
And Stella will be fung, while I
Can only be a ftander-by.

Apollo, having thought a little, Return'd this anfwer to a tittle.

Though you should live like old Methufalem,
I furnish hints, and you shall use all 'em,
You yearly fing as the grows old,

You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to fay truth, fuch dulnefs reigns,
Through the whole fet of Irifh deans,
I'm daily ftunn'd with fuch a medley,
Dean W, Dean D-, and Dean Smedley,.
That, let what Dean foever come,

My orders are, I'm not at home;

And if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pafs'd among the crowd.
But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;
For fhe, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her defcribe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar on the ground:
A fpade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould:
VOL. VII.

R

Let

Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated toward the skies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Pour'd in a strong infpiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A fovereign medicine for the brains.
You'll find it foon, if fate confents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archys, arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the Muse;
But firft let Robert on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees:
The Mufe will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year.

A SATIRICAL ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OE

A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL.

HIS

IS Grace! impoffible! what dead! Of old age too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall, And fo inglorious, after all!

3

Well,

Well, fince he's gone, no matter how,
The laft loud trump muft wake him now:
And, truft me, as the noife grows ftronger,
He'd wish to fleep a little longer.

And could he be indeed fo old'
As by the news-papers we're told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in confcience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the fnuff;
And that's the reafon, fome folks think,
He left behind fo great a s—k.
Behold his funeral appears,

Nor widows' fighs, nor orphans' tears,
Wont at fuch times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may fay,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he dy'd.
Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate!
Let Pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing's a Duke ;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he fprung.

DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION

Τ

TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON.

"Non domus aut fundus-"

IT was, my lord, the dextrous shift
Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now St. Patrick's faucy dean,
With filver verge and furplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace,
In loofer rhyme to beg a place.
A place he got, yclept a stall,
And eke a thousand pounds withal;
And, were he a lefs witty writer,
He might as well have got a mitre.

Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble lays, my thanks to offer,
Approach your grace with grateful heart,
My thanks and verse both void of art,
Content with what your bounty gave,
No larger income do I crave:
Rejoicing that in better times,
Grafton requires my loyal lines.
Proud! while my patron is polite,
I likewife to the patriot write!
Proud! that at once I can commend
King George's and the Muses' friend!
Endear'd to Britain; and to thee
(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the fea)

8

HOR.

Endear'd

Endear❜d by twice three anxious years,
Employ'd in guardian toils and cares;
By love, by wisdom, and by skill;
For he has fav'd thee 'gainst thy will.
But where fhall Smedley make his neft,
And lay his wandering head to rest?
Where fhall he find a decent house,
To treat his friends, and cheer his spouse?
Oh! tack, my lord, fome pretty cure;
In wholesome foil, and æther pure;
The garden ftor'd with artless flowers,
In either angle shady bowers.
No gay parterre, with coftly green,
Within the ambient hedge be feen:
Let Nature freely take her course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful force;
No fheers fhall check her sprouting vigour,
Nor shape the yews to antic figure :
A limpid brook fhall trout fupply,
In May, to take the mimic fly;
Round a fmall orchard may it run,
Whofe apples redden to the fun.
Let all be fnug, and warm, and neat;
For fifty turn'd a fafe retreat.
A little Eufton may it be,
Eufton I'll carve on every tree,
But then, to keep it in repair,
My lord-twice fifty pounds a year
Will barely do; but if your grace

Could make them hundreds-charming place!

Thou then wouldft fhew another face.

R 3

}

Clogher!