The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift...

"Thou chief contriver of my fall,

Relentless Dean, to mischief born; My kindred oft thine hide shall gall, Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.

And thy confederate dame, who brags
That she condemn'd me to the fire,
Shall rend her petticoats to rags,

And wound her legs with every brier.

Nor thou, Lord Arthur,* shalt escape;
To thee I often call'd in vain,

Against that assassin in crape;

Yet thou could'st tamely see me slain;

Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,

Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse; Since you could see me treated so

(An old retainer to your house :)

May that fell Dean, by whose command
Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,

Not leave a thistle on thy land;

Then who will own thee for a Scot?

Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
Through all my empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges, join in leagues,
Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hall w'd timber down;

*Sir Arthur Acheson. F.

When thou, suspended high in air,

Diest on a more ignoble tree,

(For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,)
Then, bloody caitif! think on me."

EPITAPH,

IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

HERE lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly serv'd to make folks laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.

Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,

What signifies to cry

Dickies enough are still behind,

To laugh at by and by.

Buried June 18, 1728, aged 63.

MY LADY'S LAMENTATION AND COM PLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN.

By a Dean and a Knight. With Skinny and Snipe :

Lady Acheson. F.

His malice is plain,

Hallooing the dean.

The Dean never stops, When he opens his chops; I'm quite overrun With rebus and pun.

Before he came here, To spunge for good cheer, I sate with delight, From morning till night, With two bony thumbs Could rub my old gums, Or scratching my nose, And jogging my toes; But at present, forsooth, I must not rub a tooth. When my elbows he sees Held up by my knees, My arms like two props, Supporting my chops, And just as I handle 'em Moving all like a pendu

lum;

He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops,
From my head to my

heels,

I must move my limbs
I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath,
He tires me to death.
By the worst of all squires
Through bogs and thro'
briers,

Where a cow would be startled,

I'm in spite of my heart led;

And, say what I will,
Haul'd up every hill;
Till, daggled and tatter'd
My spirits quite shatter'd,
I return home at night,
And fast, out of spite:
For I'd rather be dead,
Than it e'er should be said,
I was better for him,
In stomach or limb.

But now to my diet;
No eating in quiet,
He's still finding fault,
Too sour or too salt:
The wing of a chick

Like a clock without I hardly can pick ;

wheels;

I sink in the spleen,

A useless machine.

If he had his will,

I should never sit still: He comes with his whims,

But trash without measure. I swallow with pleasure.

Next for his diversion, He rails at my person: What court breeding his is:

He takes me to pieces: From shoulder to flank I'm lean and am lank; My nose ung and thin, Grows down to my chin; My chin will not stay, But meets it half way; My fingers, prolix, Are ten crooked sticks: He swears my el-bows Are two iron crows, Or sharp pointed rocks, And wear out my smocks; To 'scape them, Sir Arthur

But sense gives a grace
To the homeliest face:
Wise books and reflection
Will mend the complex-
ion:

(A civil divine!

I
suppose, meaning mine!)
No lady who wants them,
Can ever be handsome.

I guess well enough What he means by this stuff:

He haws and he hums,
At last out it comes :
What, madam? No walk-
ing,

No reading, nor talking?
You're now in your prime,
Make use of your time.
Consider, before

You come to threescore,
How the hussies will fleer
Where'er you appear;
"That silly old puss
Would fain be like us :
What a figure she made
In her tarnish'd brocade !"
And
then he grows

mild:
Come be a good child:
If you are inclin'd
To polish your mind,
Be ador'd by the men
Till threescore and ten,

And kill with the spleen
The jades of sixteen;
I'll show you the
way:
Read six hours a day.
The wits will frequent ye,
And think you but twenty.
Thus was I drawn in;
Forgive me my sin.
At breakfast he'll ask
An account of my
task.
Put a word out of joint,
Or miss but a point,
He rages and frets,
His manners forgets;
And, as 1 am serious,
Is very imperious.
No book for delight
Must come in my sight;
But, instead of new plays,
Dull Bacon's Essays,
And pore every day on
That nasty Pantheon.
If I be not a drudge,
Let all the world judge.
"Twere better be blind,
Than thus be confin'd.
But, while in an ill tone,
I murder poor Milton,
The Dean, you will swear,
Is at study or prayer.
He's all the day saunter-

ing,

Among his colleagues,

A parcel of Teagues,
Whom he brings in among

And bribes with mundun-
gus;

Hail, fellow, well met,
All dirty and wet:
Find out, if you can,
Who's master, who's man;
Who makes the best figure,
The Dean or the digger;
And which is the best
At cracking a jest.
How proudly he talks
Of zigzags and walks ;
And all the day raves
Of cradles and caves;
And boasts of his feats,
His grottoes and seats;
Shows all his gewgaws,
And gapes for applause;
A fine occupation
For one in his station!
A hole where a rabbit
Would scorn to inhabit,
Dug out in an hour;
He calls it a bower.

But, O how we laugh,
To see a wild calf
Come, driven by heat,
And foul the green seat;

With labourers banter- Or run helter-skelter

ing,

To his arbour for shelter,

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-kirjat