It set the very tinkers mad
The baseness of the metal,
Because they said it was so bad
It would not mend a kettle.
O Dublin, &c.

The carpenters and joiners stood
Confounded in a maze,
They seem'd to be all in a wood,
And so they went their ways.
O Dublin, &c.

This coin how well could we employ it
In raising of a statue,

To those brave men that would destroy it,
And then old Woods have at you.
O Dublin, &c.

God prosper long our tradesmen then,
And so he will I hope,

May they be still such honest men,
When Woods has got a rope.
O Dublin is a fine town, &c.

VERSES ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE,

WHO CONDEMNED THE DRAPIER'S PRINter.

THE church I hate, and have good reason:
For there my grandsire cut his weasand :
He cut his weasand at the altar;

I keep my gullet for the halter.

ON THE SAME.

In church your grandsire cut his throat;
To do the job, too long he tarried:
He should have had my hearty vote,
To cut his throat before he married.

ON THE SAME.

(THE JUDGE SPEAKS.)

I'm not the grandson of that ass* Quin;
Nor can you prove it, Mr Pasquin.
My grand-dame had gallants by twenties,
And bore my mother by a 'prentice.

This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he
In Christ-church cut his throat for jealousy.
And, since the alderman was mad you say,
Then I must be so too, ex traduce.

An alderman.-F.

EPIGRAM. APRIL 1735.

In answer to the Dean's Verses on his own Deafness, p. 350.

WHAT though the Dean hears not the knell,
Of the next church's passing bell;
What though the thunder from a cloud,
Or that from female tongue more loud,
Alarm not: At the DRAPIER's ear,
Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XIV.

PARAPHRASED, AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND.

THE INSCRIPTION.

POOR floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves,
Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves;
Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand;
Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land!
Although the metaphor be worn and stale,
Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail;
Let me suppose thee for a ship a while,
And thus address thee in the sailor's style.

UNHAPPY ship, thou art returned in vain ;*
New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.

O navis, referent in mare te novi
Fluctus ?

1726.

492 HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XIV. PARAPHRASED.

Look to thyself, and be no more the sport
Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port.
Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide,
Like faithful counsellors, on either side.†
Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood,
The single pillar for his country's good,
To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind,
Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind;
Your cable's burst, and you must quickly feel §
The waves impetuous enter at your keel;
Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke.
When the strong cords of union once are broke.
Torn by a sudden tempest is thy sail,**
Expanded to invite a milder gale.

As when some writer in a public cause
His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws,
While all is calm, his arguments prevail;
The people's voice expands his paper sail;
Till power, discharging all her stormy bags,
Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags,
The nation scared, the author doom'd to death,
Who fondly put his trust in popular breath.

A larger sacrifice in vain you vow;

There's not a power above will help you now; ††
A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects,
In vain from injur'd Heaven relief expects.

** Non tibi sunt integra lintea.

++ Non Dii, quos iterum pressa voces malo.

'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke,* That thy descent is from the British oak; Or, when your name and family you boast, From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast, Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine, Her sons descended from the British line; Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains On French records for twenty long campaigns; Yet, from an empress now a captive grown, She saved Britannia's rights, and lost her own. In ships decay'd no mariner confides, † Lured by the gilded stern and painted sides: Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight, In the gay trappings of a birth-day night: They on the gold brocades and sattins raved, And quite forgot their country was enslaved. Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just, ‡ Nor change thy course with every sudden gust; Like supple patriots of the modern sort. Who turn with every gale that blows from court. Weary and sea-sick when in thee confin'd, || Now for thy safety cares distract my mind; As those who long have stood the storms of state Retire, yet still bemoan their country's fate. Beware, and when you hear the surges roar, Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry shore. They lie, alas! too easy to be found; For thee alone they lie the island round.

Quamvis Pontica pinus,

Sylvæ filia nobilis

+ Nil pictis timidus navita puppibus.
Fidit, tu nisi ventis

Debes ludibrium, cave.

Nuper solicitum quæ mihi tædium,
Nunc desiderium curaque non levis,
Interfusa nitentes

Vites æquora Cycladas,