But, when let out, they run and muddle, With mournful note clucks round the brim. Of vigour in declining days, He dies, and leaves his mourning mate The widow goes through all her forms: AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD; OR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN* TO BE HANGED FOR OUR brethren of England, who love us so dear, And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, (A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year For the good of our church, a true English dean. * Dr. Thomas Sawbridge, dean of Fernes. F. A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape, II. In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester, And there he grew fond of another man's wife; Burst into her chamber, and would have caress'd her; But she valued her honour much more than her life. She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape. III. The Dean he pursued, to recover his game; They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs. His deanship was now in a damnable scrape, IV. To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes, "Twas what all his life he had practis'd before. He had made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, And got a good clap, but committed no rape. V. The Dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade, Resolv'd for a fortnight to swim in delight; For why, they had both been brought up to the trade VI. This protestant zealot, this English divine, And griev'd that a tory should live above ground. VII. By old popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em, VIII. If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, IX. Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres, * A bishop of Waterford, of infamous character. H. X. The Dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing: He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; He ravish'd her fairly, and sav'd a good shilling; But here was to pay the devil and all. His trouble and sorrows now come in a heap, XI. If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice: XII. Our church and our state dear England maintains, For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, And better would give us, if better she had. But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape: ON STEPHEN DUCK, THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET. A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730. THE thresher Duck could o'er the queen prevail, The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; THE LADY'S DRESSING ROOM.* 1730. FIVE hours (and who can do it less in ?) And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, * A defence of "The Lady's Dressing Room," by some facetious friend of our author, is printed in Faulkner's edition; which, after a humorous travesty of ten lines only of "Horace's Art of Poetry," decides clearly that there are ten times more slovenly expressions in those ten lines of Horace, than in the whole poem of Dr. Swift. N. |