Now I begin to fret and blot, Sure this will do 'tis good for nought This line I peevishly erace, And choose another in its place; But cannot well express the sense; The line's too short to hold my meaning; And will you venture to pursue, I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more: 'Tis much too flat to fit the Dean. Then down I lay some scheme to dream oħ Assisted by some friendly demon. I slept, and dream'd that I should meet A birth-day poem in the street; So after all my care and rout, You see, dear Dean, my dream is out. AY AND NO. A TALE FROM DUBLIN. WRITTEN IN 1737. AT Dublin's high feast sat primate and dean, Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean. Quoth Hugh of Armagh, "The mob is grown bold." "Ay, ay," quoth the dean, "the cause is old gold." 66 No, no," quoth the primate, "if causes we sift, This mischief arises from witty dean Swift." The smart one replied, "There's no wit in the case; And nothing of that ever troubled your grace. Though with your state sieve your own notions you split, A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit. It's matter of weight, and a mere money job; Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk, AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION.* THE furniture that best doth please The shelves on which my books I keep; * Ascribed to Dr. Swift, but possibly without foundation. N. EPIGRAM.* BEHOLD! a proof of Irish sense; Here Irish wit is seen! When nothing's left, that's worth defence, TO DR. SWIFT, ON HIS BIRTII-DAY. WHILE I the godlike men of old, And turn the long-liv'd volumes o'er; I grieve that our degenerate days *The Dean, in his lunacy, had some intervals of sense: at which time his guardians or physicians took him out for the air. On one of these days, when they came to the Park, Swift remarked a new building, which he had never seen, and asked what is was designed for. To which Dr. Kingsbury answered, "That, Mr. Dean, is the magazine for arms and powder, for the security of the city." "Oh! oh!" says the Dean, pulling out his pocketbook, "let me take an item of that. This is worth remarking: 'my tablets,' as Hamlet says, my tablets-memory, put down that!"-Which produced the above lines, said to be the last he ever wrote. N. Written by Mrs. Pilkington, at a time when she wished to be introduced to the Dean. The verses being presented to him by Dr. Delany, he kindly accepted the compliment. N. Patriot, philosopher, and bard, Are names unknown, and seldom heard. Spare your reflection," Phobus cries; "'Tis as ungrateful as unwise: Can you complain, this sacred day, Shall rival Greece and Rome in fame." ON DR. SWIFT. 1733. No pedant Bentley, proud, uncouth, In glory spreads abroad his name; |