That fwill'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 firft drizzling fhower 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, ftop
To rail; fhe, finging, ftill whirls on her mop.
Not yet
the duft had fhunn'd th' unequal ftrife,
But, aided by the wind, fought ftill for life,
And, wafted with its foe by violent guft,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was duft. Ah! where muft needy poet feek for aid, When duft and rain at once his coat invade? Sole coat! where duft, 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 fhops 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 feems to call a coach. The tuck'd-up femftrefs walks with hafty ftrides, While ftreams run down her oil'd umbrella's fides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories, and defponding Whigs, Forget their feuds, and join to fave their wigs. Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient fits, While fpouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather founds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Inftead of paying chairmen, ran them through)
Laocoon ftruck the outside with his fpear,
And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.
Now from all parts the fwelling 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 fight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,
From Smithfield to St 'Pulchre's fhape their courfe,
And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holbourn bridge.
Sweepings from butchers' ftalls, dung, guts, and
blood,
Drown'd puppies, ftinking fprats, 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.
WHOEVER pleases to enquire
Why yonder steeple wants a fpire,
The old fellow, poet * Joe,
grey
The philofophic cause will show.
Once on a time a western blast
At least twelve inches overcaft,
Mr. Beaumont of Trim.
Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all,
Which came with a prodigious fall;
And tumbling topfy-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 ftrutting pile,
You fee just by the church-yard ftile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the fteeple got a fhock;
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 pafs,
Obferv'd the roof behind the grass:
On tiptoe ftood, and rear'd his fnout,
And faw the parfon creeping out;
Was much furpriz'd to fee a crow
Venture to build his neft fo low.
A school-boy ran unto 't and thought,
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who loft his way by night,
Was forc'd for fafety to alight,
And stepping o'er the fabric-roof,
His horfe had like to spoil his hoof.
Warburton † took it in his noddle,
This building was defign'd a model
• Archdeacon Wall, a correfpendent of Swift's.
+ Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.
Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.
And every one was pleas'd that heard it:
All that you make this ftir about
Is but a still which wants a fpout.
The reverend Dr. Raymond † guefs'd
More probably than all the reft;
He faid, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.
The doctor's family came by,
And little mifs 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 faid to her, in a heat,
What! fell my master's country seat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not fell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not fuch a pother;
In half an hour thou'lt make another.
Says Nancy, I can make for miss
A finer houfe ten times than this;
The dean will give me willow fticks,
And Joe my apron-full of bricks.
SID HAMET THE MAGICIAN's ROD.
THE rod was but a harmless wand,
While Mofes held it in his hand;
But, foon as e'er he laid it down,
'Twas a devouring ferpent grown.
Our great magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the prophet did :
His rod was honest English wood,
That fenfelefs in a corner ftood,
Till, metamorphos'd by his grafp,
It grew an all-devouring afp;
Would hifs, and fting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere virtue of his fift;
But, when he laid it down, as quick
Refum'd the figure of a stick.
So, to her midnight-feafts, the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais'd by magick of her breech,
O'er fea and land conveys the witch;
But with the morning-dawn resumes
The peaceful ftate of common brooms,
They tell us fomething ftrange and odd,
About a certain magic rod *,
That bending down its top, divines
Whene'er the foil has golden mines;
• The virgula divina, faid to be attracted by minerals.
|