I pass now where you fleer and laugh,
'Cause I call Dan my better half!
O there you think you have me safe!

Is not a penny often found

But hold, sir:

To be much greater than a pound!

By your good leave, my most profound

and bold sir,

Dan's noble metal, Sherry base;
So Dan's the better, though the less,
An ounce of gold's worth ten of brass,
dull pedant!

As to your spelling, let me see,

If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry,

Good spelling-master; your crany

has lead in't.

ANOTHER REJOINDER.

BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME.

THREE days for answer I have waited,
I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated;
And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated
poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose`
Of thy dimension's fit for prose;
But every one that knows Dan, knows
thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines,
And fly with hurry to Rathmines; 1
Thy fame, thy genius, now declines,

proud boaster.

I hear with some concern your roar,
And flying think to quit the score,
By clapping billets on your door

and posts, sir.

Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant,
I'm grieved to hear your banishment,
But pleased to find you do relent

and cry on.

I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff,
But now I'll secret keep your stuff;
For know, prostration is enough

to th' lion.

SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION.

BY THE DEAN.

"Cedo jam, miseræ cognoscens præmia rixæ,
Si rixa est, ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum."

POOR Sherry, inglorious,
To Dan the victorious,
Presents, as 'tis fitting,
Petition and greeting.

Το you, victorious and brave,

Your now subdued and suppliant slave

A village near Dublin.---F.

Most humbly sues for pardon;

Who when I fought still cut me down,
And when I vanquish'd, fled the town
Pursued and laid me hard on.

Now lowly crouch'd, I cry peccavi,
And prostrate, supplicate pour ma vie ;
Your mercy I rely on;

For

you my conqueror and my king, In pardoning, as in punishing,

Will show yourself a lion.

Alas! sir, I had no design,
But was unwarily drawn in ;

For spite I ne'er had any;

'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name; The de'il too that owed me a shame,

The devil and Delany;

They tempted me t' attack your highness,
And then, with wonted wile and slyness,
They left me in the lurch:

Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween,
I've nothing left to vent my spleen
But ferula and birch:

And they, alas! yield small relief,
Seem rather to renew my grief,

My wounds bleed all anew:
goes to my heart,

For every stroke

And at each lash I feel the smart

Of lash laid on by you.

THE PARDON.

THE suit which humbly you have made,
Is fully and maturely weigh'd;

And as 'tis your petition,

I do forgive, for well I know,

Since you're so bruised, another blow
Would break the head of Priscian.

'Tis not my purpose or intent
That you should suffer banishment;
I pardon, now you've courted;

And yet I fear this clemency
Will come too late to profit thee,

For you're with grief transported.

However, this I do command,.

That you your birch do take in hand,
Read concord and syntax on;

The bays, you own, are only mine,
you then still your nouns decline,

Do

Since you've declined Dan Jackson.

THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL JACKSON.

MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN,

MEDIOCRIBUS esse poetis

Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnæ.

To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace's Art of Poetry, which I have

chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my speech, you will find they fall naturally into this

sense:

For poets who can't tell [high] rocks from stones, The rope, the hangman, and the gallows groans.

I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parnassus, commonly called the Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream, and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was made:

You'll have a gosling, call it Dan,
And do not make your goose a swan.
'Tis true, because the God of Wit

To get him in that shape thought fit,
He'll have some glowworm sparks of it.
Venture you may to turn him loose,
But let it be to another goose.

The time will come, the fatal time,
When he shall dare a swan to rhyme;
The tow'ring swan comes sousing down,
And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown.
From that sad time, and sad disaster,
He'll be a lame, crack'd poetaster.

At length for stealing rhymes and triplets,
He'll be content to hang in giblets.

You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and