Imatges de pÓgina
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That swill’d more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Sufan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aflope :
Such is that sprinkling which fome careless quean
Flirts on you from her

mop,

but not fo clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail ; fhe, singing, ftill whirls on her mop.
Not
yet

the duft had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought ftill for life,
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When duft and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain,
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain ! !

Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The templar spruce, while every spout's abroach,
Stays till’tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck'd-up semstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a fhed.
Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient fits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.

So

So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through)
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filths of all hues and odour, seem to tell
What street they fail'd from, by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,
From Smithfield to St 'Pulchre's shape their course,
And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holbourn bridge.
Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and

blood, Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench’d in

mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops come tumbling down

the flood.

ON THE Little HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD OF CASTLENOCK.

1710

W HOEVER pleases to enquire

Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
The
grey

old fellow, poet * Joe,
The philofophic cause will show.
Once on a time a western blast
At least twelve inches overcast,

• Mr. Beaumont of Trim.

Reckoning

Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all,
Which came with a prodigious fall;
And tumbling topsy-turvy round
Lit with its bottom on the ground.
For, by the laws of gravitation,
It fell into its

proper

ftation.
This is the little strutting pile,
You see just by the church-yard stile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the steeple got a shock;
From whence the neighbouring farmer calls
The steeple, Knock; the vicar, * Walls.

The vicar once a week creeps in,
Sits with his knees up to his chin ;
Here conns his notes, and takes a whet,
Till the small ragged flock is met.

A traveller, who by did pass,
Observ'd the roof behind the grass :
On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout,
And saw the parfon creeping out;
Was much surpriz'd to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low.

A school-boy ran unto 't and thought,
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forc'd for safety to alight,
And stepping o'er the fabric-roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof.

Warburton t took it in his noddle,
This building was design'd a model
• Archdeacon Wall, a correspendent of Swift's.
+ Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.

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Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.

Then Mrs Johnson * gave her verdict,
And every one was pleas'd that heard it :
All that you make this ftir about
Is but a still which wants a spout.
The reverend Dr. Raymond † guess'd
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.

The doctor's family came by,
And little miss began to cry;
Give me that house in my own hand!
Then madam bade the chariot stand,
Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child:
That thing, I mean, among the kale ;
And here's to buy a pot of ale.

The clerk said to her, in a heat,
What ! fell

my

master's country seat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not sell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother ;
In half an hour thou'lt make another.

Says | Nancy, I can make for miss
A finer house ten times than this;
The dean will give me willow sticks,
And Joe my apron-full of bricks.

Stella.

+ Minister of Triin.

I The waiting-woman.

THE

Τ Η Ε

VIRTUES

OF

SID HAMET THE MAGICIAN'S ROD.

1710.

ΤΗ

HE 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 fift;
But, when he laid it down, as quick
Resum'd the figure of a stick.

So, to her midnight-feąsts, the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais’d by magick 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 *
That bending down its top, divines
Whene'er the fðil has golden mines;

The virgula divina, said to be attracted by minerals.
Vol. VII.

F

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