IF, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine
Upon a single dish, and tavern wine,

Toland to you this invitation sends,

To eat the calf's head with your trusty friends.
Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes,
Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes.
To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare,

Where thou, our latest proselyte, shalt share :
When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell,
How by brave hands the royal traitor fell;
The meat shall represent the tyrant's head,
The wine his blood our predecessors shed;
While an alluding hymn some artist sings,
We toast, "Confusion to the race of kings!"
At monarchy we nobly show our spite,
And talk, what fools call treason, all the night.
Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk,
Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk?
Wine can clear up Godolphin's cloudy face,
And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place :
By force of wine, even Scarborough is brave,
Hal1 grows more pert, and Somers not so grave:
Wine can give Portland wit, and Cleaveland sense,
Montague learning, Bolton eloquence :

Cholmondeley, when drunk, can never lose his wand;

Right Honourable Henry Boyle.---Scott.

2 Swift elsewhere objects to the formality of Somers's manners.---Ibid.

And Lincoln then imagines he has land.

My province is, to see that all be right, Glasses and linen clean, and pewter bright; From our mysterious club to keep out spies, And Tories (dress'd like waiters) in disguise. You shall be coupled as you best approve, Seated at table next the man you love.

Sunderland, Orford, Boyle, and Richmond's grace, Will come; and Hampden shall have Walpole's place;

Wharton, unless prevented by a whore,

Will hardly fail; and there is room for more.
But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink ;
And honest Harry is too apt to stink.

Let no pretence of business make you stay ;
Yet take one word of counsel by the way.

If Guernsey calls, send word you're gone abroad ; He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop

Laud,

Or make you fast, and carry you to prayers;
But, if he will break in, and walk up stairs,
Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there;
Then order Squash to call a hackney-chair.

PEACE AND DUNKIRK.

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL.

1712.

To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again."

SPITE of Dutch friends and English foes,
Poor Britain shall have peace at last :
Holland got towns, and we got blows;
But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast.
We have got it in a string,

And the Whigs may all go swing,
For among good friends I love to be plain;
All their false deluded hopes

Will, or ought to end in ropes;
"But the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

Sunderland's run out of his wits,

And Dismal double Dismal looks;

Wharton can only swear by fits,
And strutting Hal is off the hooks;

Old Godolphin, full of spleen,

Made false moves, and lost his Queen;

Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane:

But a Prince of high renown

Swore he'd rather lose a crown,

"Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."

Our merchant-ships may cut the line,

And not be snapt by privateers,

And commoners who love good wine
Will drink it now as well as peers:

Landed men shall have their rent,

Yet our stocks rise cent. per cent. ·

The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain: We'll bring on us no more debts,

Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes;
"And the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

The towns we took ne'er did us good:
What signified the French to beat?
We spent our money and our blood,
To make the Dutchmen proud and great :
But the Lord of Oxford swears,

Dunkirk never shall be theirs.

The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; But true Englishmen may fill

A good health to General Hill : "For the Queen now enjoys her own again."

HORACE, BOOK I. EP. VII.

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.
1713.

HARLEY, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
(His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe's business in his breast,)
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheapening old authors on a stall.

The priest was pretty well in case,
And show'd some humour in his face;
Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My lord (who, if a man may say't,
Loves mischief better than his meat)
Was now disposed to crack a jest,
And bid friend Lewis 1 go in quest
(This Lewis is a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley's favour)-
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If possible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.

Lewis his patron's humour knows,
Away upon his errand goes,

And quickly did the matter sift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift;
A clergyman of special note

For shunning those of his own coat;

Which made his brethren of the

gown

Take care betimes to run him down :

No libertine, nor over nice,

Addicted to no sort of vice,

Went where he pleased, said what he thought;

Not rich, but owed no man a groat;

In state opinions à la mode,

1 Erasmus Lewis, Esq. the treasurer's secretary.