Imatges de pàgina
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"Nor thou, lord* Arthur, fhalt escape: "To thee I often call'd in vain, Against that affaffin in crape;

"Yet thou could'ft tamely fee me flain.

"Nor when I felt the dreadful blow, "Or chid the dean, or pinch'd thy "fpoufe;

"Since you could fee me treated fo (An old retainer to your house),

"May that fell dean, by whose command "Was form'd this Machiavellian plot, "Not leave a thiftle on thy land;

"Then who will own thee for a Scot?

"Pigs and fanaticks, cows and teagues, "Through all thy empire I forefee, "To tear thy 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,

* Sir Arthur Achefon.

"When

"When thou, fufpended high in air, "Dy'ft on a more ignoble tree

tr

(For thoufhalt fteal thy landlord's mare), "Then, bloody caitif, think on me.

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Sot's-Hole, with

at their head.

N. B. The Ladies treated the Doctor.

Sent as from an Officer in the Army.

FA

Written in the Year 1728.

AIR ladies, number five,
Who, in your merry freaks,

With little Tom contrive
To feaft on ale and fteaks.

While he fits by a grinning,
To fee you fafe in Sot's-hole,
with greafy linen,

Set

up

And neither mugs nor pots whole.

* An alehouse in Dublin + Dr. Thomas Sheridan. famous for beef-fteaks.

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 fhall fee your faces

fo

On paper daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like graces, Than Venus like an owl,

rather

And we shall take you
To be a midnight pack
Of witches met together
With Beelzebub in black.

It fills my heart with woe
To think, fuch ladies fine
Should be reduc'd fo low
To treat a dull divine.

Be by a parfon cheated!

Had you been cunning ftagers,
You might yourselves be treated
By captains and by majors.

See how corruption grows
While mothers, daughters, aunts,

Inftead of powder'd beaus,
From pulpits chufe gallants.

If we, who wear our wigs

With fan-tail and with fnake, Are bubbled thus by prigs;

Zds, 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 Rofe on Sunday,
The parfon fafe at church,
I'll treat you with burgundy.

Α

On burning a Dull POEM.

Written in the Year 1729.

AN afs's hoof alone can hold
That pois'nous juice, which kills by

cold.

Methought, when I this poem read,
No veffel but an afs's head

Such frigid fuftian could contain;
I mean the head without the brain.

* He kept a school.

'The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts
Went down like ftupifying draughts:
I found my head began to fwim,
A numbness crept thro' ev'ry limb.
In hafte, 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 fnow, it dy'd in flame.

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