Imatges de pÓgina
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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.

* When

“ 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.

FA
AIR ladies, number five,

Who, in your merry freaks,
With little Tom contrive

To feast on ale and steaks.

While he sits by a grinning,

To see you safe in Sot's-hole,
Set

up with greasy linen,
And neither mugs nor pots whole.

+ Dr. Thomas Sheridan.

* An alehouse in Dublin fainous for beef-steaks,

Alas!

Alas! I never thought,

A priest would please your palate; Befides, I'll hold a groat,

He'll put you in a ballad;
Where I shall see your faces
On
paper

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.

AN

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
Went down like stupifying draughts:
I found my head began to swim,
A numbness crept thro' ev'ry limb.
In haste, with imprecations dire,
I threw the volume in the fire :
When (who could think?) tho'cold as ice,
It burnt to ashes in a trice.

How could I more enhance its fame? Tho' born in snow, it dy'd in flame.

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