And so a perjur'd dog denotes
Porter, and Prendergast, and Oates,
And forty others I could name.

STELLA AT WOOD-PARK,

WHIG. But, you must know, this dog was lame. TORY. A weighty arguiment indeed! Your evidence was lame :-proceed · Come help your lame dog o'er the style.

WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this while : I mean a dog (without a joke),

Can howl, and bark, but never spoke.

TORY. I'm stil to seck, which dog you mean;
Whether cur Plunkeit, or whelp Skean,
An English or an Irish hound;

Or t' other puppy, that was drown'd;
Or Mason, that abandon'd bitch:
Then pray be free, and tell me which:
For every stander-by was marking

That all the noise they made was barking.
You pay them well; the dogs have g
Their dogs-heads in a porridge pot:
And 'twas but just; for wise men say,
That every dog must have his day.

Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on 't,
He'd either make a hog or dog on 't:
And look'd, since he has got his wish,
As if he had thrown down a dish.
Yet this I dare foretel you from it,
He'll soon return to his own vomit.

WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was found
By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.

TORY. Why then the proverb is not right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.

WHIG. I prov'd my proposition full:
But Jacobites are strangely dull.
Now let me tell you plainly, sir,
Our witness is a real cur,

A dog of spirit for his years,

Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that's a name in every plot:
Resolv'd to save the British nation,
Though French by birth and education:
His correspondence plainly dated,
Was all decypher'd and translated:
His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the secret wise committee:
Confess'd as plain as he could bark;
Then with his fore-foot set his mark.

TORY. Then all this while have I been babbled,

I thought it was a dog in donbiet:

The matter now no longer sticks;

For statesmen never want dog-tricks,

But since it was a real cur,

And not a dog in metaphor,

I give you joy of the report,

That he's to have a place at court.

WHIC. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in ;

A turn-spit in the royal kitchen.

Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occasion for a plot:

And, when we found the dog begin it,
We guess'd the bishop's foot was in it.
TORY. I own, it was a dangerous project;
And you have prov'd it by dog-logic.
Sure such intelligence between
A dog and bishop ne'er was seen,
Till you began to change the brood;
Your bishops all are dogs indeed!

A HOUSE OF CHARLES FORD. ESQ. NEAR DUBLIN,

1723.

-Cuicumque nocere volebat,
Vestimenta dabat pretiosa.

Don Carlos, in a merry spight,
Did Stella to his house invite;
He entertain'd her half a year
With generous wines and costly cheer.
Don Carlos made her chief director,
That she might o'er the servants hector.
In half a week the dame grew nice,
Got all things at the highest price:
Now at the table-head she sits,
Presented with the nicest bits:
She look'd on partridges with scorn,
Except they tasted of the corn;

A haunch of venison made her sweat,
Unless it had the right fumette.
Don Carlos earnestly would beg,
"Dear madam, try this pigeon's leg;"
Was happy, when he could prevail
To make her only touch a quail.
Through candle-light she view'd the wine,
To see that every glass was fine.
At last, grown prouder than the devil
With feeding high and treatment civil,
Don Carlos now began to find

Hiis malice work as he design'd.
The winter-sky began to frown;
Poor Stella must pack off to town:

From purling streams and fountains bubbling,
To Liffy's stinking tide at Dublin;

From wholesome exercise and air,

To sossing in an easy chair;

From stomach sharp, and hearty feeding,

To piddle like a lady breeding;

From ruling there the household singly,
To be directed here by Dingly 1;
From every day a lordly banquet,
To half a joint, and God be thanked;
From every meal Pontack in plenty,
To half a pint one day in twenty;
From Ford attending at her call,
To visits of

From Ford who thinks of nothing mean,

To the poor doings of the dean;
From growing richer with good cheer,

To running-out by starving here.

But now arrives the dismal day;
She must return to Orinond Quay 2.
The coachman stopt; she look'd, and swore
The rascal had mistook the door:

At coming in, you saw her stoop ;
The entry brush'd against her hoop:
Each moment rising in her airs,
She curst the narrow winding stairs;
Began a thousand faults to spy;
The cieling hardly six feet high;
The smutty wainscot fell of cracks;
And half the chairs with broken backs:
Her quarter 's out at lady-day;
She vows she will no longer stay

The constant companion of Stella.

2 Where the two ladies lodged.

In lodgings like a poor grizette, While there are lodgings to be let.

Howe'er, to keep her spirits up, She sent for company to sup: When all the while you might remark, She strove in vain to ape Wood-park. Two bottles call'd for (half her store; The cupboard could contain but four): A supper worthy of herself,

Five nothings in five plates of delf.

Thus for a week the farce went on;
When all her country savings gone,
She fell into her former scene,
Small beer, a herring, and the dean.

Thus far in jest: though now, I fear,
You think my jesting too severe;
But poets when a hint is new,
No inatier whether false or true:
Yet raillery gives no offence,

Where truth has not the least pretence;
Nor can be more securely plac'd
Than on a nymph of Stella's taste.
I must confess your wine and vittle
I was too hard upon a little:
Your table neat, your linen fine;
And, though in miniature, you shine:
Yet, when you sigh to leave Wood-park,
The scene, the welcome, and the spark,
To languish in this odious town,
And pall your haughty stomach down;
We think you quite mistake the case,
The virtue lies not in the place:
For, though my raillery were true,
A cottage is Wood-park with you.

COPY OF THE

BIRTH-DAY VERSES

ON MR. FORD.

COME, be content, since out it must,
For Stella has betray'd her trust;
And whispering, charg'd me not to say
That Mr. Ford was born to-day;
Or, if at last I needs must blab it,
According to my usual habit,
She bid me, with a serious face,
Be sure conceal the time and phee;
And not my compliment to spoil,
By calling this your native soil;
Or vex the ladies, when they knew
That you are turning torty two:
But, if these topies shall appeu
Strong arguments to keep you here,
I think, though you judge har 'ly of it,
Good manners must give place to profit.
The nymphs with whom you first begon
Are each become a karzidan ;
And Montague so far decay'd,
Her lovers now must all be paid;
And every belle that since arose
Has her contempo, ory beaux.
Your former comiades, once so bright,
With whom you tasted half the night,
Of rheumatism and pox compián,
And bid adieu to dear champaign.

Your great protectors, once in power,
Are now in exile or the Tower.
Your foes triumphant o'er the laws,
Who hate your person and your cause,
If once they get you on the spot,
You must be guilty of the plot :
For, true or false, they 'll ne'er inquire,
But use you ten times worse than Prior

In London! what would you do there?
Can you, my friend, with patience bear
(Nay, would it not your passion raise
Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase?)
To see a scoundrel strut and hector,
A foot-boy to some rogue director,
To look on vice triumphant round,
And virtue trampled on the ground?
Observe where bloody ***** stands
With torturing engines in his hands;
Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail,
Threatening the pillory aud jail :
If this you think a pleasing scene,
To London straight return again;
Where, you have told us from experience,
Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians.

I thought my very spleen would burst,
When fortune hither drove me first;
Was full as hard to please as you,
Nor persons, names, nor places knew:
But now I act as other folk,
Like prisoners when their jail is broke.

If you have London still at heart,
We'll make a small one here by art:
The difference is not much between
St. James's Park, and Stephen's Green;
And Dawson-street will serve as well
To lead you thither as Pall-Mall.
Nor want a passage through the palace,
To choke your sight, aud raise your malice:
The deanry-honse may well be match`d,
Under correction, with the Thatcht 2.
Nor shall 1, when you hither come,
Demand a crown a quart for stum.
Then, for a middle-aged charmer,
Stella may vie with your Monthermer;
The 's now as handsome every bit,
And has a thousand times her wit.
The dean and Sheridan, I hope,
Will half supply a Gay and Pope.
Corbet 3, thongh yet I know his worth not,
No doubt will prove a good Arbuthnot.
I throw into the bargain Tim;
In London can you equal him?
What think you of my favourite clan,
Robin and Jack, and Jack and Dan,
Fellows of modest wor h and parts,
With cheerful books and honest hearts?
Can you on Dublin look with scorn:
Yet here were you and Ormond born.
Oh! were but you and I so wise,
To so with Robert Grattan's eyes!
Robin adores that spot of earth,
That literal spot which gave him birth;
And swears, Belcamp is, to his taste,
"As fine as Hampton-court at least

When to your friends you would enhance
The praise of Italy or France,
For grandeur, elegance, and wit,
We gladly hear you, and submit:
But then, to come and keep a clutter,
For this or that side of the gutter,
To live in this or t' other isle,
We cannot think it worth your while;
For, take it kindly or amiss,
The difference but amounts to this:
We bury on our side the channel
In linen; and on yours in flannel 6.
You for the news are ne'er too seek ;
While we, perhaps, may wait a week:
You happy folks are sure to meet
An hundred whores in every street;
While we may trace all Dublin o'er
Before we find out half a score.

You see my arguments are strong;
I wonder you held out so long:
But, since you are convinc'd at last,
We'll pardon you for what is past.
So-let us now for whist prepare ;
Twelve pence a corner, if you dare.

Charon in him will ferry souls to Hell;

A trade our Boat hath practis'd here so well:
And Cerberus hath ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws.
Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Boat in his old post again.
The way is thus; and well deserves your thanks:
Take the three strongest of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen,
Form'd like the triple-tree near Stephen's-green 5;
And when we view it thus with thief at end on't,
We'll cry,
"Look, here's our Boat, and there's
pendant!"

the

THE EPITAPH.

HERE lies judge Boat within a coffin; Pray, gentle-folks, forbear your scoffing. A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder? A wooden judge is no such wonder. And in his robes, you must agree, No Boat was better deckt than he. 'Tis needless to describe him fuller; In short, he was an able sculler.

JOAN CUDGELS NED. 1723.

JOAN cudgels Ned, yet Ned 's a bully;
Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cuily.
Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan,
She dares not say her life 's her own.
Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned,
And every day she combs his head.

A QUIBBLING ELEGY,

ON JUDGE BOAT. 1723.

To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note,
Since cruel fate hath sunk our justice Boat.
Why should he sink, where nothing seem'd to press,
His lading little, and his ballast less?
Tost in the waves of this tempestuous world,
At length, his anchor fixt and canvas furl'd,
To Lazy-hill retiring from his court,

At his Ring's-end he founders in the port.
With water fill'd, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a stronger boat.

A post so fill'd on nature's laws entrenches:
Benches on boats are plac'd, not boats on benches.
And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot.
With every wind he sail'd, and well could tack;
Had many pendents, but abhorr'd a Jack 3,
He's gone, although his friends began to hope
That he might yet be lifted by a rope.

Behold the awful bench on which he sat !
He was as hard and ponderous wood as that:
Yet, when his sand was out, we find at last,
That death has overset him with a blast.
Our Boat is now sail'd to the Stygian ferry,
There to supply old Charon's leaky wherry:

6 The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in 1733.

1 Two villages near the sea.

2 It was said he died of a dropsy.

3 A cant word for a Jacobite.

PETHOX THE GREAT.
FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows;
But who thy father, no man knows:
Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race;
Whether thy temper, full of fire,
Discovers Vulcan for thy sire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin sing'd the soil
(From whence, philosophers agree,
An equal power descends to thee);
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high descent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, show numerous scars
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you bore
From head to foot, and all before,
And still the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader's tent;
Or whether as the learn'd contend,
You from the neighbouring Gaul descend;
Or from Parthenope the proud,
Where numberless thy votaries crowd;
Whether thy great forefather came
From realms that bear Vesputio's name
(For so conjecturers would obtrude,
And from thy painted skin conclude);
Whether, as Epicurus shows,

The world from justling seeds arose,
Which, mingling with prolific strife
In chaos, kindled into life:
So your production was the same,
And from contending atoms came.

Thy fair indulgent mother crown'd
Thy head with sparkling rubies round:
Beneath thy decent steps the road
Is all with precious jewels strow'd.
The bird of Pallas knows his post,
Thee to attend, where'er thou goest.

4 In condemning malefactors, as a judge.

5 Where the Dublin gallows stands.

1 This name is plainly an anagram.

Byzantians boast, that on the clod Where once their sultan's horse had trod, Grows neither grass, nor shrub, nor tree: The same thy subjects boast of thee.

The greatest lord, when you appear,
Will deign your livery to wear,
In all the various colours seen
Of red and yellow, blue and green.
With half a word, when you require,
The man of business must retire.

The haughty minister of state
With trembling must thy leisure wait;
And, while his fate is in thy hands,
The business of the nation stands.

Thou dar'st the greatest prince attack,
Canst hourly set him on the rack;
And, as an instance of his power,
Enclose him in a wooden tower,
With pungent pains on every side:
So Regulus in torments dy'd.

From thee our youth all virtues learn,
Dangers with prudence to discern;
And well thy scholars are endued
With temperance, and with fortitude;
With patience, which all ills supports;
And secresy, the art of courts.

The glittering beau could hardly tell,
Without your aid, to read or spell;
But, having long convers'd with you,
Knows how to write a billet-doux.

With what delight, methinks, I trace
Your blood in every noble race!

In whom thy features, shape, and mien,
Are to the life distinctly seen!
The Britons, once a savage kind,
By you were brighten'd and refin'd,
Descendants to the barbarous Huns,
With limbs robust, and voice that stuns :
But you have moulded them afresh,
Remov'd the tough superfluous flesh,
Taught them to modulate their tongues,
And speak without the help of lungs.

Proteus on you bestow'd the boon
To change your visage like the Moon;
You sometimes half a face produce,
Keep t' other half for private use.

How fam'd thy conduct in the fight
With Hermes, son of Pleias bright!
Out-number'd, half encompass'd round,
You strove for every inch of ground;
Then, by a soldierly retreat,
Retir'd to your imperial seat.
The victor, when your steps he trac'd,
Found all the realms before him waste :
You, o'er the high triumphal arch
Pontific, made your glorious march;
The wondrous arch behind you fell,
And left a chasm profound as Hell:
You, in your capitol secur'd,
A siege as long as Troy endur'd.

I'm sure such words do not become a man of your cloth; troth. I would not give such language to a dog, faith and Yes, you call'd my inaster a knave; fic, Mr. Sheridan! tis a shame

For a parson, who should know better things, to come out with such a name

Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both. a shame and a sin;

And the dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin:

He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body:

My master is a parsonable man, and not a spindleshank'd hoddy-doddy.

[excuse, And now, whereby I find you would fain make an Because my master one day, in anger, call'd you

'Mary,said he," (one day as I was mending my master's stocking)

"My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school

I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool." [ale

"Saunders," said I, "I would rather than a quart of He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail."

And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter;

For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget, she writes better.

Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers;

And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs;

Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand:

And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to command,

Fr

MARY.

A NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT FOR BEC1,

1723-4,

RETURNING Janus now prepares,
For Bec, a new supply of cares,
Sent in a bag to doctor Swift,
Who thus displays the New-year's-gift.
First, this large parcel brings you tidings
Of our good dean's eternal chidings;
Of Nelly's pertness, Robin's leasings,
And Sheridan's perpetual teasings,
This box is cramm'd on every side
With Stella's magisterial pride.
Behold a cage with sparrows fill'd,
First to be fondled, then be kill'd.
Now to this hamper I invite you,
With six imagin'd cares to fright you.
Here in this bundle Janus sends
Concerns by thousands for your friends:
And here's a pair of leathern pokes,
To hold your cares for other folks.
Here from this barrel you may broach
A peck of troubles for a coach.

This ball of wax your ears will darken,
Still to be curious, never hearken.
Lest you the town may have less trouble in,
Bring all your Quilca's 2 cares to Dublin,
For which he sends this empty sack;
And so take all upon your back,

1 Mrs. Dingley, Stella's friend and companion. 2 A country-house of Dr. Sheridan.

Dr. Swift's house keeper.

Time was,
when I could yearly pay
My verse on Stella's native day:
But now, unable grown to write,
I grieve she ever saw the light.
Ungrateful! since to her I owe
That I these pains can undergo.
She tends me, like an humble slave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutish passions break,
With gall in every word I speak,
She with soft speech, my anguish cheers,
Or melts my passions down with tears:
Although 'tis easy to descry

She wants assistance more than !;
Yet seems to feel my pains alone,
And is a Stoic in her own.
When, among scholars, can we find
So soft, and yet so firm a mind?
All accidents of life conspire
To raise up Stella's virtue higher,
Or else to introduce the rest
Which had been latent in her breast.
Her firmness who could e'er have known.
Had she not evils of her own?

Her kindness who could ever guess,
Had not her friends been in distress?
Whatever base returns you find
From me, dear Stella, still be kind.
In your own heart you'll reap the fruit,
Though I continue still a brute.

But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again:
Meantime, your other juster friends
Shall for my follies make amends;
So may we long continue thus
Admiring you, you pitying us.

ON DREAMS.

AN IMITATION OF PETRONIUS.

Somnia quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &e

THOSE dreams that on the silent night intrude,
And with false flitting shades our minds delude,
Jove never sends us downward from the skies;
Nor can they from infernal mansions rise;
But all are mere productions of the brain,
And fools consult interpreters in vain.

For, when in bed we rest our weary limbs,
The mind unburden'd sports in various whims;
The busy head with mimic art runs o'er
The scenes and actions of the day before.

The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led,
To regal rage devotes some patriot's head.
With equal terrours, not with equal guilt,
The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt.

The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries,
And stabs the son before the mother's eyes.
With like remorse his brother of the trade,
The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.
The statesman rakes the town to find a plot,
And dreams of forfeitures by treason got.
Nor less Tom-t-d-man, of true statesman mound,
Collects the city filth in search of gold.

Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, And takes the plantiff's and defendant's fees.