So when the grandson of his grandsire
Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir,
With powder'd rump and back and side,
You cannot blanch his tawny hide;
For 'tis beyond the power of meal
The gipsy visage to conceal;

For as he shakes his wainscot chops,
Down every mealy atom drops,
And leaves the tartar phiz in show,
Like a fresh t-d just dropp'd on snow.

CLAD ALL IN BROWN.

TO DICK.1

FOULEST brute that stinks below,

Why in this brown dost thou appear?
For wouldst thou make a fouler show,
Thou must go naked all the year.
Fresh from the mud, a wallowing sow
Would then be not so brown as thou.

'Tis not the coat that looks so dun,
His hide emits a foulness out;
Not one jot better looks the sun

Seen from behind a dirty clout.

So t-ds within a glass enclose,
The glass will seem as brown as those.

1 This is a parody on the tenth poem of Cowley's "Mistress," entitled, "Clad all in White."---Scott.

Thou now one heap of foulness art,
All outward and within is foul;
Condensed filth in every part,

Thy body's clothed like thy soul: Thy soul, which through thy hide of buff Scarce glimmers like a dying snuff.

Old carted bawds such garments wear, When pelted all with dirt they shine; Such their exalted bodies are,

As shrivell'd and as black as thine. If thou wert in a cart, I fear

Thou wouldst be pelted worse than they're.

Yet, when we see thee thus array'd,
The neighbours think it is but just,
That thou shouldst take an honest trade,
And weekly carry out the dust.

Of cleanly houses who will doubt,
When Dick cries "Dust to carry out!"

DICK'S VARIETY.

DULL uniformity in fools

I hate, who gape and sneer by rules;
You, Mullinix, and slobbering C

Who every day and hour the same are;
That vulgar talent I despise

Of pissing in the rabble's eyes.

And when I listen to the noise
Of idiots roaring to the boys;
To better judgment still submitting,
I own I see but little wit in:

Such pastimes, when our taste is nice,
Can please at most but once or twice.
But then consider Dick, you'll find
His genius of superior kind;
He never muddles in the dirt,

Nor scours the streets without a shirt;
Though Dick, I dare presume to say,
Could do such feats as well as they.
Dick I could venture everywhere,
Let the boys pelt him if they dare,
He'd have them tried at the assizes

For priests and jesuits in disguises;

Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender, And listing troops for the Pretender.

But Dick can f-t, and dance, and frisk,

No other monkey half so brisk;

Now has the speaker by his ears,

Next moment in the House of Peers;
Now scolding at my Lady Eustace,
Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.1
Presto! begone; with t'other hop
He's powdering in a barber's shop;
Now at the antichamber thrusting

1 Tighe, it is said, used to beat his wife. There are allusions to his matrimonial discipline, in Swift's Journal to Stella.---Scott.

His nose, to get the circle just in;
And damns his blood that in the rear
He sees a single Tory there:
Then woe be to my lord-lieutenant,
Again he'll tell him, and again on't.'

TRAULUS. PART I.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN.3

1730.

Tом. Say, Robin, what can Traulus mean
By bellowing thus against the Dean?
Why does he call him paltry scribbler,
Papist, and Jacobite, and libeller,
Yet cannot prove a single fact?

ROBIN. Forgive him, Tom: his head is crackt. T. What mischief can the Dean have done him, That Traulus calls for vengeance on him?

1 Farquhar, who inscribed his play of the "Inconstant " to Richard Tighe, has painted him in very different colours from those of the Dean's satirical pencil. Yet there may be discerned, even in that dedication, the outlines of a light mercurial character, capable of being represented as a coxcomb or fine gentleman, as should suit the purpose of the writer who was disposed to immortalize him.---Scott.

2 The Dean in his speech to the Corporation of Dublin, complains of the strictures passed upon him by Lord Allen. His lordship's allegations that Swift was disaffected, produced the following severe retort.---Scott.

3 Son of Dr. Charles Leslie.---Scott.

4 Joshua Lord Allen.---F.

Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it
In vain against the people's favourite?
Revile that nation-saving paper,

Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier?
R. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain;
Party and spleen have turn'd his brain.
T. Such friendship never man profess'd,
The Dean was never so caress'd;
For Traulus long his rancour nursed,
Till, God knows why, at last it burst.
That clumsy outside of a porter,
How could it thus conceal a courtier?
R. I own, appearances are bad;
Yet still insist the man is mad.

T. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows
How to distinguish friends from foes;
And though perhaps among the rout
He wildly flings his filth about,
He still has gratitude and sap'ence,
To spare the folks that give him ha'pence;
Nor in their eyes at random pisses,
But turns aside, like mad Ulysses;
While Traulus all his ordure scatters
To foul the man he chiefly flatters.
Whence comes these inconsistent fits?

R. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits. T. Agreed and yet, when Towzer snaps At people's heels, with frothy chaps, Hangs down his head, and drops his tail, say he's mad will not avail;

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