The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 60

Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance.

You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer; Must I make myself hoa.r.s.e with demanding an answer?

If this be your practice, mean scrub, I a.s.sure ye, And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury, I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk; I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk: Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding, I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.

MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723

Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head!

You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.

I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth; I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth.

Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name.

Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin; And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin: He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole body: My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy.

And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose: Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober: Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked college.

You say you will eat gra.s.s on his grave:[1] a Christian eat gra.s.s!

Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an a.s.s: But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye; Well, well, that's as G.o.d pleases; and I don't believe that's a true story: And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I?

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary.

Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil: I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil.

Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here; I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year.

And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking: Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;) My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school-- I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool.

Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail.

And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter; For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better.

Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers: And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs; Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand; And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command, MARY.

[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 349.--_W.E.B_.]

A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE

Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw: In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw; A temper the devil himself could not bridle; Impertinent mixture of busy and idle; As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed; She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit; A housewife in bed, at table a slattern; For all an example, for no one a pattern.

Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3] and Merry Dan,[4]

Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?

[Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.]

[Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.]

[Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.]

[Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.]

ON STEALING A CROWN, WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP

Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes, Like ghost I glide along your floor, And softly shut the parlour door: For, should I break your sweet repose, Who knows what money you might lose: Since oftentimes it has been found, A dream has given ten thousand pound?

Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on, And all you get shall be your own; Provided you to this agree, That all you lose belongs to me.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

So, about twelve at night, the punk Steals from the cully when he's drunk: Nor is contented with a treat, Without her privilege to cheat: Nor can I the least difference find, But that you left no clap behind.

But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye, My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha'penny To eat my meat and drink my medlicot, And then to give me such a deadly cut-- But 'tis observed, that men in gowns Are most inclined to plunder crowns.

Could you but change a crown as easy As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye!

I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine's Knew how to set you better patterns; For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3]

And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em.

Sat.u.r.day night.

[Footnote 1: A shilling pa.s.ses for thirteen pence in Ireland.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the Dean had a great esteem.--_Scott_.]

A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S SCHOOL.

SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS

AS in a silent night a lonely swain, 'Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain, To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes, And every look finds out a new surprise; So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view Our lower sphere made more serene by you.

O! could such light in my dark bosom shine, What life, what vigour, should adorn each line!

Beauty and virtue should be all my theme, And Venus brighten my poetic flame.

The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun; Majestic light his feeble art defies, And for presuming, robs him of his eyes.

Then blame your power, that my inferior lays Sink far below your too exalted praise: Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain; No, we're sincere,--to flatter you were vain.

You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied, And all perfections but your beauties hide.

Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind, Nor frown on those you see so well inclined To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.

THE EPILOGUE

Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell Have we not play'd our parts extremely well?

We think we did, but if you do complain, We're all content to act the play again: 'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most, And time well spent in school cannot be lost.

But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above?

We guess'd long since you all desired to move: But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir, Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1]

Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play; He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay.

Though this new method may provoke your laughter, To act plays first, and understand them after; We do not care, for we will have our humour, And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more.

Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge; How much they've read, I leave you all to judge.

[Footnote 1: The vulgar p.r.o.nunciation of the word construe is here intended.--_W. E. B._]