This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lae a Pery.*
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra ;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,

If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You'd live till all your friends were weary of you.
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn'd you what would follow.
Are the Deanery sober hours?

Be witness for me all ye powers.
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten ;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me.
Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite.
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I 'scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking ;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable :
It strikes eleven,-get out of doors.—
This is my constant farewell.

October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.

Yours,

J. S.

You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine

with me than with the provost.

* So in the manuscript.

LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW

IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE.

SOON after Swift's acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocese of Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the following lines on one of the windows which looks into the church-yard. In the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it has been since restored.

RESOLVE me this, ye happy dead,

Who've lain some hundred years in bed,
From every persecution free

That in this wretched life we see ;

Would ye resume a second birth,

And choose once more to live on earth?

Dr. Sheridan wrote underneath the following lines.

THUS spoke great Bedal* from his tomb :-
"Mortal, I would not change my doom,
To live in such a restless state,

To be unfortunately great;

To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves,

To shine amidst a race of slaves;
To learn from wise men to complain,
And only rise to fall again:
No! let my dusty relics rest,
Until I rise among the blest."

* Bishop Bedal's tomb lies within view of the window.

THE UPSTART.

THE following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are said by Mr. Wilson the editor, on what authority does not appear, to have been composed by Swift, in order to humble the pride of a person of this odious disposition, who chanced to reside in his parish of Laracor.

The rascal! that's too mild a name ;
Does he forget from whence he came ?
Has he forgot from whence he sprung?
A mushroom in a bed of dung;
A maggot in a cake of fat,

The offspring of a beggar's brat;
As eels delight to creep in mud,
To eels we may compare his blood;
His blood delights in mud to run,
Witness his lazy, lousy son!

Puff'd up with pride and insolence,
Without a grain of common sense.
See with what consequence he stalks!
With what pomposity he talks!
See how the gaping crowd admire
The stupid blockhead and the liar!
How long shall vice triumphant reign?
How long shall mortals bend to gain?
How long shall virtue hide her face.
And leave her votaries in disgrace?
-Let indignation fire my strains,
Another villain yet remains-

Let purse-proud C―n next approach;
With what an air he mounts his coach!

A cart would best become the knave,
A dirty parasite and slave!
His heart in poison deeply dipt,
His tongue with oily accents tipt,
A smile still ready at command,
The pliant bow, the forehead bland-"

ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF

WATERFORD.

The ap

WHILE viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. proach to this monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote the Latin epigram, and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he said, of the ladies.

—— URBS INTACTA MANET-semper intacta manebit, Tangere crabones quis bene sanus amat?

TRANSLATION.

A THISTLE is the Scottish arms,

Which to the toucher threatens harms:

What are the arms of Waterford,

That no man touches-but a

?

VERSES ON BLENHEIM.

THE original of these verses is in the possession of Leonard Macnally, Esq. They have been, I believe, already published under another name than that of the Dean.

Atria longe patent, sed nec conantibus usquam,
Nec somno, locus est: quam bene non habitas!

MART. lib. 12, Ep. 50.

SEE, here's the grand approach,
That way is for his grace's coach ;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock ;*

The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design'd
They never smoke in any wind:
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,

But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,

That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.

* A lion tearing a cock to pieces was placed in front of Blenheim House; a wretched pun in architecture, deservedly criticised in the Spectator.

VOL. XII,

2 G