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“ Nor thou, lord * Arthur, shalt escape:
" To thee I often calld in vain, “ Against that affassın in crape;
“ Yet thou could'st tamely see me lluin. “ Nor when I felt the dreadful blow, “ Or chid the dean, or pinch'd thy "spouse;
could see me treated so (An old retainer to your house), “ May that fell dean, by whose command
“ Was form’d this Machiavellian plot, “ Not leave a thistle on thy land;
" Then who will own thee for a Scot?
" Since you
Pigs and fanaticks, cows and teagues,
" Through all thy empire I foresee, " To tear iby hedges, join in leagues;
“ Sworn to revenge my thorn and me. And thou the wretch ordain’d by fate,
" Neal Gagahan, Hibernian clown, " With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
“ To hack my hallow'd timber down, " When thou, suspended high in air,
* Sir Arthur Achefor.
“ Dy’ft on a more ignoble tree * (For thou shalt stealthy landlord's mare), “ Then, bloody caitif, think on me.
On the five Ladies at Sot's-Hole, with
the Doctor of at their head.
N. B. The Ladies treated the Doctor.
Sent as from an Officer in the Army.
Written in the Year 1728.
Who, in your merry freaks,
To feast on ale and steaks.
While he sits by a grinning,
To see you safe in Sot's-hole,
up with greasy linen,
+ Dr. Thomas Sheridan.
* An alehouse in Dublin fainous for beef-steaks,
Alas! I never thought,
A priest would please your palate; Befides, I'll hold a groat,
He'll put you in a ballad;
daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like graces,
Than Venus like an owl, And we shall take you rather
To be a midnight pack Of witches met together
With Beelzebub in black.
It fills my heart with woe
To think, such ladies fine Should be reduc'd so low
To treat a dull divine.
Be by a parson cheated !
Had you been cunning stagers, , You might yourselves be treated
By captains and by majors. See how corruption grows
While mothers, daughters, aunts, Instead of powder'd beaus,
From pulpits chuse gallants.
If we, who wear our wigs
With fan-tail and with snake, Are bubbled thus by prigs;
Z-ds, who would be a rake?
Had I a heart to fight,
I'd knock the doctor down; Ör could I read or write,
Egad I'd wear a gown.
Then leave him to his birch *
And at The Rose on Sunday, The parson safe at church,
I'll treat you with burgundy.
On burning a Dull POEM.
Written in the Year 1729.
N ass's hoof alone can hold
That pois'nous juice, which kills by
cold. Methought, when I this poem read, No veffel but an ass's head Such frigid fustian could contain; I mean the head without the brain. * He kept a school.
'The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts
How could I more enhance its fame? Tho' born in snow, it dy'd in flame.