Presto! be gone! with t'other hop
He's powdering in a barber's shop
Now at the antichamber thrusting
His nose to get the circle just in,
And d-ns his blood, that in the rear
He sees one single tory there:

Then, wo be to my lord lieutenant,
Again he'll tell him, and again on't.

ЕРІТАРН,

*

ON GENERAL GORGES, AND LADY MEATH.†

UNDER this stone lies Dick and Dolly.
Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy;
For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.

Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear:
But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a year;
A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear.

Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd;
Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost :
The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.

Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried :
To live without both full three days he tried;
But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.

* Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath. F.

Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married and died April 10, 1728. Her husband sur

to the general in 1716

vived her but two days. F.

Dick left a pattern few will copy after;

. Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter.

Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late;
The son laughs, that got the hard gotten estate :
And Cuffe* grins, for getting the Alicant plate.

Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day,
Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday,
And here rest- -sic transit gloria mundi !

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT.

My latest tribute here I send,
With this let your collection end.
Thus I consign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame:
And if the whole may pass for true,
Contented rest, you have your due.
Give future time the satisfaction,
To leave one handle for detraction.

140

DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF.

ON SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

GRAVE Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass; That you, who so lately were writing of Drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers ?

* John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq. married the general's eldest danghtér. F.

To act such an opera once in a year,

So offensive to every true protestant ear,

With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing.
Will sure the pretender and popery bring in.
No protestant prelate, his lordship or grace,
Durst there show his right or most reverend face:
How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets !
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crotchets.

[The rest is wanting.]

DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD

ON BALLYSPELLIN.

1728.

ALL you that would refine your blood,
As pure as fam'd Llewellyn,

By waters clear, come every year,
To drink at Ballyspellin.

Though pox or itch your skins enrich

With rubies past the telling,

"Twill clear your skin before you've been A month at Ballyspellin.

If lady's cheek be green as leek

When she comes from her dwelling,

The kindling rose within it glows

When she's at Ballyspellin.

The sooty brown, who comes from town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;

Then back she goes, to kill the beaux
By dint of Ballyspellin.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair

As Rose, or bright Dunkelling:

And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Were he at Ballyspellin.

We meu submit as they think fit,
And here is no rebelling:

The reason's plain; the ladies reign,
They're queens at Ballyspellin.

By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such desperate foes as dare oppose
Their power at Ballyspellin.

Gold water turns to fire, and burns,
I know, because I fell in

A stream, which came from one bright dame
Who drank at Ballyspellin.

Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,
To bring their Anne or Nell in,
With so much grace, I'm sure no place
Can vie with Ballyspellin.

No politics, no subtle tricks,

No man his country selling :

We eat, we drink; we never think
Of these at Ballyspellin.

The troubled mind, the puft with wind,

Do all come here pellmell in;

And they are sure to work their cure
By drinking Ballyspellin.

Though dropsy fills you to the gills,
From chin to toe though swelling,
Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
A cure at Ballyspellin.

Death throws no darts through all the parts,

No sextons here are knelling:
Come, judge and try, you'll never die,
But live at Ballyspellin.

Except you feel darts tipt with steel,
Which here are every belle in:
When from their eyes sweet ruin flies,
We die at Ballyspellin.

Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care, Your sight, your taste, your smelling, Your ears, your touch, transported much Each day at Ballyspellin.

Within this ground we all sleep sound,

No noisy dogs a-yelling;
Except you wake, for Cælia's sake,

All night at Ballyspellin.

There all you see, both he and she,
No lady keeps her cell in;
But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone; I think I've none,
Unless I should bring Hell in;

But, since I'm here to Heaven so near,
I can't at Ballyspellin!