But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink;
And honeft Harry* is too apt to stink.
Let no pretence of business make you stay; Yet take one word of counfel by the way. If Guernsey calls, fend word you're gone abroad; He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop Laud, Or make you faft, and carry you to prayers: But, if he will break-in, and walk up ftairs, Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there Then order Squash to call a hackney-chair.
Being an excellent new SONG upon the Surrender of DUNKIRK to General HILL. 1712.
To the Tune of, "The King fhall enjoy his own again."
PITE of Dutch friends and English foes,
Poor Britain shall have peace at last:
Holland got towns, and we got blows;
But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast.
We have got it in a firing,
And the Whigs may all go fwing,
For among good friends I love to be plain;
All their falfe deluded hopes
Will, or ought to end in ropes; "But the Queen fhall enjoy her own again."
Right Hon. Henry Boyle, mentioned twice before.
Sunderland's run out of his wits,
And Difinal double Difmal looks;
Wharton can only fwear by fits,
And ftrutting Hal is off the hooks,
Old Godolphin full of fpleen,
Made falfe moves, and loft his queen; Harry look'd fierce, and fhook his ragged mane: But a prince of high renown
Swore he'd rather lofe a crown,
"Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."
Our merchant-ships may cut the Line,
And not be fnapt by privateers,
And commoners who love good wine
Will drink it now as well as peers:
Landed-men fhall have their rent,
Yet our stocks rife cent. per cent.
The Dutch from hence fhall no more millions drain:
We'll bring on us no more debts,
Nor with bankrupts fill Gazettes;
"And the Queen fhall enjoy her own again."
The towns we took ne'er did us good:
What fignified the French to beat?
We spent our money and our blood,
To make the Dutchmen proud and great:
But the lord of Oxford fwears,
Dunkirk never fhall be theirs.
The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; But true Englishmen may fill
A good health to General Hill; "For the Queen now enjoys her own again."
Addreffed to the Earl of OXFORD, 1713.
HARLEY, the nation's great fupport,
Returning home one day from court,
(His mind with public cares poffeft,
All Europe's business in his breast)
Obferv'd a parfon near Whitehall
Cheapening old authors on a ftall.
The priest was pretty well in case,
And fhew'd fome humour in his face;
Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect ftranger to the spleen;
Of fize that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to fit ftill.
My Lord (who, if a man may fay't,
Loves mifchief better than his meat)
Was now difpos'd to crack a jeft,
And bid friend Lewis go in queft
(This Lewis is a cunning fhaver,
And very much in Harley's favour)
In queft who might this parfon be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If poffible, to learn his ftory,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.
* Erafinus Lewis, efq; the treasurer's fecretary.
Lewis his patron's humour knows,
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter fift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift;
A clergyman of fpecial note
For fhunning thofe of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes to run him down :
No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no fort of vice,
Went where he pleas'd, faid what he thought;
Not rich, but ow'd no man a groat:
In state opinions à la mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad,
Had given the faction many a wound,
Kept company with men of wit,
And libel'd all the junto round:
And fince he could not spend his fire,
He now intended to retire.
Said Harley, "I defire to know
"From his own mouth if this be fo;
Step to the Doctor ftrait, and fay,
"I'd have him dine with me to-day."
Swift feem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor would believe my Lord had fent;
So never offer'd once to ftir;
But coldly faid, "Your fervant, Sir !"
"Does he refufe me?" Harley cried;
"He does, with infolence and pride.'
Some few days after, Harley spies
The Doctor faften'd by the eyes
At Charing-crofs among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out :
He pull'd the ftring, and stopt his coach,
Beckoning the Doctor to approach.
Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,
Came fneaking to the chariot-fide,
And offer'd many a lame excufe ;
He never meant the leaft abuse
My Lord the honour you defign'd
Extremely proud - but I had din'd
"I'm fure I never should neglect
"No man alive has more respect
"Well, I fhall think of that no more,
"If you'll be fure to come at four."
The Doctor now obeys the fummons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talents, fits till ten;
Next day invited comes again;
Scon grows domeftic, feldom fails
Either at morning or at meals:
Came early, and departed late;
In fhort, the gudgeon took the bait.
My Lord would carry on the jeft,
And down to Windfor takes his gueft.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a canon there;
In fummer round the park to ride,
In winter, never to refide.
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