Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, 'Midft fnowy hills, inclement skies;
One fhivers with the Arctic wind,
One hears the polar axis grind.
Good John* indeed, with beef and claret,
Makes the place warm that one may bear it.
He has a purfe to keep a table,
And eke a foul as hofpitable.
My heart is good; but affets fail,
To fight with ftorms of fnow and hail.
Befides, the country's thin of people,
Who feldom meet but at the steeple:
The ftrapping dean, that's gone to Down,
Ne'cr nam'd the thing without a frown,
When, much fatigued with fermon-study,
He felt his brain grow dull and muddy;
No fit companion could be found,
To push the lazy bottle round:
Sure then, for want of better folks
To pledge, his clerk was orthodox.
Ah! how unlike to Gerard-ftreet,
Where beaux and belles in parties meet 3
Where gilded chairs and coaches throng,
And joftle as they trowl along;
Where tea and coffee hourly flow,
And gape-feed does in plenty grow;
And Griz (no clock more certain) cries,
Exact at feven, "Hot mutton-pies!"
There lady Luna in her sphere
Once fhone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said,
Keeps fober hours, and goes to bed.
There-but 'tis endless to write down
All the amusements of the town;
And spouse will think herself quite undone,
To trudge to Connor * from fweet London
And care we muft our wives to please,
Or elfe-we shall be ill at ease.
You fee, my lord, what 'tis I lack,
"Tis only fome convenient tack,
Some parfonage-house, with garden fweet,
To be my late, my last retreat;
A decent church close by its fide,
There, preaching, praying, to refide;
And, as my time fecurely rolls,
To fave my own and other fouls.
DEAR Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory fhines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope, to make you yet as clean
As that fame Viz, St. Patrick's dean.
I'll give thee furplice, verge, and ftall,
And may be fomething else withal;
• The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there are two deans.
And, were you not fo good a writer,
I should prefent you with a mitre.
Write worse then, if you can-be wife—
Believe me, 'tis the way to rife.
Talk not of making of thy neft:
Ah! never lay thy head to reft!
That head fo well with wisdom fraught,
That writes without the toil of thought!
While others rack their bufy brains,
You are not in the leaft at pains.
Down to your deanry new repair,
And build a castle in the air.
I'm fure a man of your fine sense
Can do it with a small expence.
There your dear spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of æther.
She'll help your wife when she's in labour
Well fkill'd in midwife artifices,
For the herself oft' falls in pieces.
There you fhall fee a raree-fhew
Will make you fcorn this world below,
When you behold the milky way,
As white as fnow, as bright as day;
The glittering conftellations roll
About the grinding Arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your ears,
Wrought by the mufick of the spheres-
Your spouse fhall then no longer hector,
You need not fear a curtain-lecture;
Nor fhall fhe think that fhe is undone
For quitting her beloved London.
When she's exalted in the skies,
She'll never think of mutton-pies;
When you're advanc'd above dean Viz
You'll never think of goody Griz.
But ever, ever, live at ease,
And strive, and strive, your wife to please;
In her you'll centre all your joys,
And get ten thoufand girls and boys:
Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get,
And they like ftars fhall rife and fet.
While you and spouse, transform'd, fhall foon
Be a new fun and a new moon :
you ftrive your horns to hide, For then your horns fhall be your pride.
IF it be true, celestial Powers,
That you have form'd me fair,
And yet, in all my vaineft hours,
My mind has been my care:
Then, in return, I beg this grace,
As you were ever kind,
What envious Time takes from my face,
Beftow upon my mind!
Shield me from his rage, celestial Powers! This tyrant, that embitters all my hours! Ah, Love! you've poorly play'd the hero's part: You conquer'd, but you can't defend my heart. When first I bent beneath your gentle reign, I thought this monfter banish'd from your train : you would raise him to fupport your throne; And now he claims your empire as his own. Or tell me, tyrants! have you both agreed, That where one reigns, the other shall fucceed??
DR. DELANY'S VILLA†.
WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, Sir, I will not jibe:
For who would be fatirical
Upon a thing so very small?
You scarce upon the borders enter, Before you're at the very centre.
A fingle crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Obferve a vast variety;
Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs,
• On the publication of " Cadenus and V'aneffa.”
This was not Swift's, but written by Dr. Sheridan.
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