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This duty done, the meagre monster stares,
Holds up his bones, and thus begins his prayers:
"Thou, goddess Famine, that canst send us
blights,

With parching heat by day, and storm by nights,
Assist me now: so may all lands be thine,
And shoals of orphans at thy altars pine!
Long may thy rain continue on each shore,
Where-ever peace and plenty reign'd before!
I must confess, that to thy gracious hand
I widows owe, that are at my command;
I joy to hear their numerous children's cries;
And bless thy power, to find they've no supplies.
I thank thee for those martyrs, who would flee
From superstitious rites and tyranny,
And find their fullness of reward in me.
But 'tis with much humility I own,
That generous favour you have lately shown,
When men, that bravely have their country serv'd,
Receiv'd the just reward that they deserv'd,
And are preferr'd to me, and shall be starv'd.
I can, but with regret, 1 can despise
Innumerable of the London cries,

When pease, and mackarel, with their harsher sound,

The tender organs of my ears confound;
But that which makes my projects all miscarry,
Is this inhuman, fatal Furmetary.

"Not far from hence, just by the Bridge of Fleet,
With spoons and porringers, and napkin neat,
A faithless syren does entice the sense,
By fumes of viands, which she does dispense
To mortal stomachs, for rewarding pence;
Whilst each man's earliest thoughts would banish
Who have no other oracle but thee."

CANTO II.

[me,

And per se And alone, as poets use,
The starving dictates of my rules pursues;
No swinging coachman does afore him shine,
Nor has he any constant place to dine,
But all his notions of a meal are mine.
Haste, haste, to him, a blessing give from me,
And bid him write sharp things on furmetry.
But I would have thee to Coffedro go,
And let Tobacco too thy business know;
With famous Teedrums in this case advise,
Rely on Sagoe, who is always wise.
Amidst such counsel, banish all despair;
Trust me, you shall succeed in this affair:
That project which they Furmetary call,
Before next breakfast-time shall surely fall!"

This said, she quickly vanish'd in a wind
Had long within her body been confin'd.
Thus Hercules, when he his mistress found,
Soon knew her by her scent, and by her sound.

CANTO III.

HUNGER rejoic'd to hear the blest command, That Furmetary should no longer stand; With speed he to Coffedro's mansion flies, And bids the pale-fac'd mortal quickly rise.

"Arise, my friend; for upon thee do wait Dismal events and prodigies of Fate! 'Tis break of day, thy sooty broth prepare, And all thy other liquors for a war: Rouse up Tobacco, whose delicious sight, Illuminated round with beams of light, To my impatient mind will cause delight. How will he conquer nostrils that presume To stand th' attack of his impetuous fume! Let handsome Teedrums too be call'd to arts, For he has courage in the midst of charms: Sagoe with counsel fills his wakeful brains,

WHILST such-like prayers keen Hunger would But then his wisdom countervails his pains;

advance,

Fainting and weakness threw him in a trance:
Famine took pity on her careful slave,
And kindly to him this assistance gave.
She took the figure of a thin parch'd maid,
Who many years had for a husband staid;
And, coming near to Hunger, thus she said:

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My darling son, whilst Peace and Plenty smile, And Happiness would over-run this isle, I joy to see, by this thy present care, I've still some friends remaining since the war: In spite of us, A does on venison feed, And bread and butter is for B decreed; C D combines with E F's generous soul, To pass their minutes with the sparkling bowl; H I's good-nature, from his endless store, Is still conferring blessings on the poor, For none, except 'tis K, regards them more. L, M, N, O, P, 2, is vainly great, And squanders half his substance in a treat. Nice eating by R, S, is understood; T's supper, though but little, yet is good; U's conversation's equal to his wine, You sup with W, whene'er you dine: X, Y, and Z, hating to be confin'd, Ramble to the next eating-house they find; Pleasant, good-humour'd, beautiful, and gay, Sometimes with music, and sometimes with play, Prolong their pleasures till th' approaching day.

'Tis he shall be your guide, he shall effect
That glorions conquest which we all expect:
The brave Hectorvus shall command this force;
He'll meet Tubcarrio's foot, or, which is worse,
Oppose the fury of Carmanniel's horse.
For his reward, this he shall have each day,
Drink coffee, then strut out and never pay.”

It was not long ere the grandees were met,
And round newspapers in full order set.
Then Sagoe, rising, said, "I hope you hear
Hunger's advice with an obedient ear;
Our great design admits of no delay,
Famine commands, and we must all obey:
That syren which does Furmetary keep
Long since is risen from the bands of sleep;
Her spoons and porringers, with art display'd,
Many of Hunger's subjects have betray'd."

"To arms," Hectorvus cried: "Coffedro stout, Issue forth liquor from thy scalding spout !”

Great One-and-all-i gives the first alarms;
Then each man snatches up offensive arms.
To Ditch of Fleet courageously they run,
Quicker than thought; the battle is begun:
Hectorvus first Tubcarrio does attack,
And by surprise soon lays him on his back;
Thirsto and Drowtho then, approaching near,
Soon overthrow two magazines of beer.

The innocent Syrena little thought
That all these arms against herself were brought;

Nor that in her defence the drink was spilt:
How could she fear, that never yet knew guilt?
Her fragrant juice, and her delicious plums,
She does dispense (with gold upon her thumbs):
Virgins and youths around her stood; she sate,
Environ'd with a wooden-chair of state.

In the mean time, Tobacco strives to vex
A numerous squadron of the tender sex;
What with strong smoke, and with his stronger
breath,

He funks Basketia and her son to death.

Coffedro then, with Teedrums, and the band Who carried scalding liquors in their hand, Throw watery ammunition in their eyes; On which Syrena's party frighten'd flies: Carmannio straight drives up a bulwark strong, And horse opposes to Coffedro's throng. Coledrivio stands for bright Syrena's guard, And all her rallied forces are prepar'd; Carmannio then to Teedrums' squadron makes, And the lean mortal by the buttons takes; Not Teedrums' arts Carmannio could beseech, But his rough valour throws him in the ditch. Syrena, though surpris'd, resolv'd to be The great bonduca of her Furmetry: Before her throne courageously she stands, Managing ladles-full with both her hands. The numerous plums like hail-shot flew about, And Plenty soon dispers'd the meagre rout.

So have I seen, at fair that's nam'd from Horn, Many a ladle's blow by prentice borne; In vain he strives their passions to assuage, With threats would frighten, with soft words engage; Until, through milky gauntlet soundly beat, His prudent heels secure a quick retreat.

Jamque opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis,

Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas!

MULLY OF MOUNTOWN'.

FIRST PRINTED BY THE AUTHOR IN 1704. MOUNTOWN! thou sweet retreat from Dublin Be famous for thy apples and thy pears; [cares, For turnips, carrots, lettuce, beans, and pease; For Peggy's butter, and for Peggy's cheese. May clouds of pigeons round about thee fly! But condescend sometimes to make a pie. May fat geese gaggle with melodious voice, And ne'er want gooseberries or apple-sauce! Ducks in thy ponds, and chicken in thy pens, And be thy turkeys numerous as thy hens! May thy black pigs lie warm in little sty, And have no thought to grieve them till they die! Mountown! the Muses' most delicious theme; Oh! may thy codlins ever swim in cream! Thy rasp-and straw-berries in Bourdeaux drown, To add a redder tincture to their own!

'It was taken for a state poem, and to have many mysteries in it; though it was only made, as well as Orpheus and Eurydice, for country diversion. KING.

'A pleasant villa to the south of Dublin, near the sea.

Thy white-wine, sugar, milk, together club,
To make that gentle viand syllabub.
Thy tarts to tarts, cheese-cakes to cheese-cakes
To spoil the relish of the flowing wine. [join,
But to the fading palate bring relief,

By thy Westphalian ham, or Belgic beef;
And, to complete thy blessings, in a word,
May still thy soil be generous as its lord3 !

Oh! Peggy, Peggy, when thou goest to brew,
Consider well what you're about to do;
Be very wise, very sedately think

That what you're going now to make is drink ;
Consider who must drink that drink; and then,
What 'tis to have the praise of honest men:
For surely, Peggy, while that drink does last,
'Tis Peggy will be toasted or disgrac'd.
Then, if thy ale in glass thou would'st confine,,
To make its sparkling rays in beauty shine,
Let thy clean bottic be entirely dry,
Lest a white substance to the surface fly,
And, floating there, disturb the curious eye.
But this great maxim must be understood,
"Be sure, nay very sure, thy cork be good!"
Then future ages shall of Peggy tell,

That nymph that brew'd and bottled ale so well.

How fleet is air! how many things have breath,
Which in a moment they resign to death;
Depriv'd of light, and all their happiest state,
Not by their fault, but some o'er-ruling Fate!
Although fair flowers, that justly might invite,
Are cropt, nay torn away, for man's delight;
Yet still those flowers, alas! can make no moan,
Nor has Narcissus now a power to groan!
But all those things which breathe in different
frame,

By tie of common breath, man's pity claim.
A gentle lamb has rhetoric to plead,
And, when she sees the butcher's knife decreed,
Her voice entreats him not to make her bleed:
But cruel gain, and luxury of taste,
With pride, still lays man's fellow-mortals waste:
What earth and waters breed, or air inspires,
Man for his palate fits by torturing fires.

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Mully, a cow, sprung from a beauteous race, With spreading front, did Mountown's pastures

grace.

Gentle she was, and, with a gentle stream,
Each morn and night gave milk that equal'd cream.
Offending none, of none she stood in dread,
Much less of persons which she daily fed:
"But Innocence cannot itself defend
'Gainst treacherous arts, veil'd with the name of
friend."

Robin of Derbyshire, whose temper shocks
The constitution of his native rocks;
Born in a place4, which, if it once be nam'd,
Would make a blushing modesty asham'd:
He with indulgence kindly did appear
To make poor Mully his peculiar care;
But inwardly this sullen churlish thief
Had all his mind plac'd upon Mully's beef;
His fancy fed on her; and thus he'd cry,
Mully, as sure as I'm alive, you die!

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'Tis a brave cow, O, sirs, when Christmas comes, These shins shall make the porridge grac'd with plums ;

Then, 'midst our cups, whilst we profusely dine, This blade shall enter deep in Mully's chine. What ribs, what rumps, what bak'd, boil'd, stew'd, and roast!

There shan't one single tripe of her be lost!" When Peggy, nymph of Mountown, heard these sounds,

She griev'd to hear of Mully's future wounds.
"What crime," said she, "has gentle Mully done?
Witness the rising and the setting Sun,
That knows what milk she constantly would give!
Let that quench Robin's rage, and Mully live."

Daniel, a sprightly swain, that us'd to slash
The vigorous steeds that drew his lord's calash,
To Peggy's side inclin'd; for 'twas well known
How well he lov'd those cattle of his own.

Then Terence spoke, oraculous and sly, He'd neither grant the question nor deny; Pleading for milk, his thoughts were on mincepie:

But all his arguments so dubious were,
That Mully thence had neither hopes nor fear.
"You've spoke," says Robin; "but now, let
me tell ye,

'Tis not fair spoken words that fill the belly:
Pudding and beef I love; and cannot stoop
To recommend your bonny-clapper soup.
You say she's innocent: but what of that?
"Tis more than crime sufficient that she's fal!
And that which is prevailing in this case

Is, there's another cow to fill her place.

And, granting Mully to have milk in store,

Yet still this other cow will give us more.

She dies."-Stop here, my Muse: forbear the rest : And veil that grief which cannot be exprest!

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.

FIRST PRINTED BY THE AUTHOR IN 1704.

As poets say, one Orpheus went
To Hell upon an odd intent.
First tell the story, then let's know,
If any one will do so now.

This Orpheus was a jolly boy,
Born long before the siege of Troy;
His parents found the lad was sharp,
And taught him on the Irish harp;
And, when grown fit for marriage-life,
Gave him Eurydice for wife;
And they, as soon as match was made,
Set up the ballad-singing trade.

The cunning varlet could devise,
For country folks, ten thousand lies;
Affirming all those-monstrous things
Were done by force of harp and strings";
Could make a tiger in a trice
Tame as a cat, and catch your mice;
Could make a lion's courage flag,
And straight could animate a stag,
And, by the help of pleasing ditties,
Make mill-stones run, and build up cities;
Each had the use of fluent tongue,
If Dicé scolded, Orpheus sung.
And so, by discord without strife,
Compos'd one harmony of life;

And thus, as all their matters stood,
They got an honest livelihood.

Happy were mortals, could they be
From any sudden danger free!
Happy were poets, could their song
The feeble thread of life prolong!

But, as these two went stro-ling on,
Poor Dicé's scene of life was done:
Away her fleeting breath must fly,
Yet no one knows wherefore, or why.

This caus'd the general lamentation,
To all that knew her in her station;
How brisk she was still to advance
The harper's gain, and lead the dance,
In every tune observe her thrill,
Sing on, yet change the money still.

Orpheus best knew what loss he had,
And, thinking on't, fell almost mad,
And in despair to Linus ran,
Who was esteem'd a cunning-man;
Cried, "He again must Dicé have,
Or else be buried in her grave."

Quoth Linus, "Soft, refrain your sorrow:
What fails today, may speed tomorrow.
Thank you the gods for whate'er happens,
But don't fail out with your fat capons.
'Tis many an honest man's petition,
That he may be in your condition.
If such a blessing might be had,
To change a living wife for dead,
I'd be your chopinan; nay, I'd dot,
Though I gave forty pounds to boot.
Consider first, you save her diet;
Consider next, you keep her quiet:
For, pray, what was she all along,
Except the burthen of your song?
What, though your Dicé's under ground;
Yet many a woman may be found,
Who, in your gains if she may part take,
Trust me, will quickly make your heart ach:
Then, rest content, as widowers should-
The gods best know what's for our good!"
Orpheus no longer could endure
Such wounds, where he expected cure.
"Is't possible!" cried he: " and can
That noble creature, married man,
In such a cause be so profane?
I'll fly thee far as I would Death,
Who from my Dicé took her breath."
Which said, he soon outstript the wind,
Whilst puffing Boreas lagg'd behind;
And to Urganda's cave he came,
A lady of prodigious fame,
Whose hollow eyes and hopper breech
Made common people call her witch;
Down at her feet hé prostrate lies,
With trembling heart and blubber'd eyes,

"Tell me," said he, "for sure you know
The powers above, and those below,
Where does Eurydice remain?
How shall I fetch her back again?"

She smilingly replied, "I'll tell
This easily without a spell :
The wife you look for's gone to Hell-
Nay, never start, man, for 'tis so;
Except one ill-bred wife or two,
The fashion is, for all to go.

Not that she will be damn'd; ne'er fear
But she may get preferment there.
Indeed, she might be fried in pitch,
If she had been a bitter bitch;

If she had leapt athwart a sword,
And afterwards had broke her word.
But your Eurydice, poor soul! -
Was a good-natur'd harmless fool;
Except a little cattervawling,
Was always painful in her calling;
And, I dare trust old Pluto for't,
She will find favour in his court:
But then to fetch her back, that still
Remains, and may be past my skill;
For, 'tis too sad a thing to jest on,

You're the first man e'er ask'd the question;

For husbands are such selfish elves,
They care for little but themselves.
And then one rogue cries to another,
Since this wife's gone, e'en get another:
Though most men let such thoughts alone,
And swear they've had enough of one.
But, since you are so kind to Dicé,
Follow the course which I advise ye;
E'en go to Hell yourself, and try
Th' effect of music's harmony;
For you will hardly find a friend,
Whom you in such a case might send:
Besides, their Proserpine has been
The briskest dancer on the green,
Before old Pluto ravish'd her,

Took her to Hell-and you may swear,
She had but little music there;
For, since she last beheld the Sun,
Her merry dancing days are done:
She has a colt's-tooth still, I warrant,
And will not disapprove your errand.
Then your request does reason seem,
For what's one single ghost to them?
Though thousand phantoms should invade ye,
Pass on faint heart ne'er won fair lady!
The bold a way will find, or make;
Remember, 'tis for Dicé's sake."

Nothing pleas'd Orpheus half so well,
As news that he must go to Hell.

Th' impatient wight long'd to be going,
As most folks seek their own undoing;
Ne'er thought of what he left behind;
Never consider'd he should find

Scarce any passenger beside

Himself, nor could be hire a guide.

"Will music do't?" cried he. " Ne'er heed:
My harp shall make the marble bleed;
My harp all dangers shall remove,
And dare all flames, but those of love.”
Then kneeling begs, in terms most civil,
Urganda's passport to the Devil.
Her pass she kindly to him gave,

Then bade him 'noint himself with salve;
Such as those hardy people use,
Who walk on fire without their shoes,
Who, on occasion, in a dark hole,
Cau gormandize on lighted charcoal,
And drink eight quarts of flaming fuel,
As men in flux do water-gruel.
She bade him then go to those caves,
Where conjurers keep fairy slaves,
Such sort of creatures as will baste ye
A kitchen-wench, for being nasty,
But, if she neatly scour her pewter,
Give her the money that is due t'her.

Orpheus went down a narrow hole,
That was as dark as any coal;

He did at length some glimmering spy,
By which, at least, he might descry
Ten thousand little fairy elves,
Who there were solacing themselves.

All ran about him, cried, "Oh, dear! Who thought to have seep Orpheus here? 'Tis that queen's birth-day which you see, And you are come as luckily :

You had no ballad but we bought it,
Paid Dicé when she little thought it;
When you beneath the yew-tree sat,
We've come, and all danc'd round your hat;
But whereabouts did Dicé leave ye?
She had been welcome, sir, believe me."

"These little chits would make one swear," Quoth Orpheus, 'twixt disdain and fear. "And dare these urchins jeer my crosses, And laugh at mine and Dicé's losses? Hands off-the monkeys hold the faster; Sirrahs, I'm going to your master!"

"Good words," quoth Oberon: "don't flinch; For, every time you stir, I'll pinch; But, if you decently sit down,

I'll first equip you with a crown;
Then for each dance, and for each song,
Our pence apiece the whole night long."
Orpheus, who found no remedy,

Made virtue of necessity;

Though all was out of tune, their dance
Would only hinder his advance.
Each note that from his fingers fell
Seem'd to be Dicé's passing-bell;

At last, night let him ease his crupper,
Get on his legs, to go to supper.

Quoth Nab, "We here have strangers seldom, But, sir, to what we have you're welcome." "Madam, they seem of light digestion.

Is it not rude to ask a question,

What they may be, fish, flesh, or fruit?
For I ne'er saw things so minute."

"SIR,

"A roasted ant, that's nicely done, By one small atom of the Sun.

These are flies' eggs, in moon-shine poach'd;
This a flea's thigh in collops scotch'd,
'Twas hunted yesterday i'th' Park,
And like t' have 'scap'd us in the dark.
This is a dish entirely new,
Butterflies' brains dissolv'd in dew;
These lover's vows, these courtiers' hopes,
Things to be eat by microscopes;
These sucking mites, a glow-worm's heart,
This a delicious rainbow-tart!"

"Madam, I find, they're very nice, And will digest within a trice;

I see there's nothing you esteem,
That's half so gross as our whipt-cream;
And I infer, from all these meats,

That such light suppers keep clean sheets."
"But, sir," said she, "perhaps you're dry!"
Then, speaking to a fairy by,

"You've taken care, my dear Endia, All's ready for my ratifia."

SIR,

"A drop of water, newly torn Fresh from the rosy-finger'd Morn;

A pearl of milk, that's gently prest
From blooming Hebe's early breast;
With half a one of Cupid's tears,
When he in embryo first appears;
And honey from an infant bee:
Makes liquor for the gods and me !"
"Madam," says he, "an't please your
grace,

I'm going to a droughty place;

And, if I an't too bold, pray charge her,
The draught I have be somewhat larger."
"Fetch me," said she, "a mighty bowl,
Like Oberon's capacious soul,
And then fill up the burnish'd gold
With juice that makes the Britons bold.
This from seven barley-corns I drew,
Its years are seven, and to the view
'Tis clear, and sparkles fit for you.
"But stay-

When I by Fate was last time hurl'd,
To act my pranks in t'other world,

I saw some sparks as they were drinking,
With mighty mirth and little thinking,
Their jests were supernaculum,

I snatch'd the rubies from each thumb,
And in this crystal have them here,
Perhaps you'll like it more than beer."
Wine and late hours dissolv'd the feast,
And men and fairies went to rest.

The bed where Orpheus was to lie.
Was all stuff'd full of harmony:
Purling streams and amorous rills,
Dying sound that never kills,
Zephyrus breathing, love delighting,
Joy to slumber soft inviting,
Trembling sounds that make no noise,
And songs to please without a voice,
Were mixt with down that fell from Jove,
When he became a swan for love.

'Twas night, and Nature's self lay dead, Nodding upon a feather-bed;

The mountains seem'd to bend their tops,
And shutters clos'd the milleners' shops,
Excluding both the punks and tops;
No ruffled streams to mill do come,
The silent fish were still more dumb;
Look in the chimney, not a spark there,
And darkness did itself grow darker.

But Orpheus could not sleep a wink,
He had too many things to think:
But, in the dark, his harp he strung,
And to the listening fairies sung.

Prince Prim, who pitied so much youth
Join'd with such constancy and truth,
Soon gave him thus to understand;

"Sir, I last night receiv'd command
To see you out of fairy land,
Into the realm of Nosnotbocai;

But let not fear of sulphur choak ye;
For he's a fiend of sense and wit,

And has got many rooms to let."

As quick as thought, by glow-worm glimpse, Out walk the fidler and the prince. They soon arrive; find Bocai brewing Of claret for a vintner's stewing.

"I come from Oberon," quoth prince Prim. ""Tis well," quoth Bocai: "what from him?" "Why, something strange; this honest man Had his wife died; now, if he can, He says, he'd have her back again."

Then Bocai, smiling, cried, "You see,
Orpheus, you'd better stay with me.
For, let me tell you, sir, this place,
Although it has an ugly face,
If to its value it were sold,

Is worth ten thousand ton of gold;
And very famous in all story,
Call'd by the name of Purgatory.
For, when some ages shall have run,
And Truth by Falsehood be undone,
Shall rise the whore of Babylon;
And this same whore shall be a man,
Who, by his lies and cheating, can
Be such a trader in all evil,

As to outdo our friend the Devil :
He and his pimps shall say, that when
A man is dying, thither then
The Devil comes to take the soul,
And carry him down to this hole;
But, if a man have store of wealth,
To get some prayers for his soul's health,
The Devil has then no more to do,
But must be forc'd to let him go.
But we are no more fools than they,
Thus to be bubbled of our prey.
By these same pious frauds and lies,
Shall many monasteries rise:

Friars shall get good meat and beer,
To pray folks out that ne'er came here;
Pans, pots, and kettles, shall be given,
To fetch a man from hence to Heaven.
Suppose a man has taken purses,
Or stolen sheep, or cows, or horses,
And chances to be hang'd; you'd cry,
Let him be hang'd, and so good-by.
Hold, says the friar; let me alone,
He's but to Purgatory gone;
And, if you'll let our convent keep
Those purses, cows, horses, and sheep,
The fellow shall find no more pain,
Than if he were alive again."

Here Orpheus sigh'd, began to take on,
Cried, "Could I find the whore you spake on,
I'd give him my best flitch of bacon:
I'd give him cake and sugar'd sack,
If he would bring my Dice back:
Rather than she should longer stay,
I'd find some lusty man to pray.
And then poor Dicé, let him try her,
I dare say, would requite the friar."
Great Nosnotbocai smil'd to see
Such goodness and simplicity.
Then kindly led them to a cell,
An outward granary of Hell;

A filthy place, that's seldom swept,
Where seeds of villany are kept.

Orpheus," said he, "I'd have you take
Some of these seeds here, for my sake;
Which, if they are discreetly hurl'd
Throughout the parts of t'other world,
They may oblige the fiend you sue to,
And fill the palace of old Pluto.

"Sow pride-seed uppermost; then above Envy and scandal plant self-love. Here take revenge, and malice without cause, And here contempt of honesty and laws; This hot seed's anger, and this hotter lust, Best sown with breach of friendship, and of trust: These storm, hail, plague, and tempest seeds; And this a quintessence of weeds;

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