The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 12

THE EPITAPH

Here, five feet deep, lies on his back A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; Who to the stars, in pure good will, Does to his best look upward still.

Weep, all you customers that use His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; And you that did your fortunes seek, Step to his grave but once a-week; This earth, which bears his body's print, You'll find has so much virtue in't, That I durst p.a.w.n my ears, 'twill tell Whate'er concerns you full as well, In physic, stolen goods, or love, As he himself could, when above.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1]

Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.

Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, And softly stole to discompose her own; The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.

Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.

The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2]

The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street.

The turnkey now his flock returning sees, Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3]

The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.

[Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes, 1786.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: To find old nails.--_Faulkner_.]

[Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the prison.--_W. E. B._]

A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1]

WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238

Careful observers may foretell the hour, (By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower.

While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.

Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink.

If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.

A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage; Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; He d.a.m.ns the climate, and complains of spleen.

Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.

Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: You fly, invoke the G.o.ds; then, turning, stop To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.

Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3]

Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade?

Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!

Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this _devoted_ town.

To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.

The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.

The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.

Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.

Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5]

Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.

Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within.

So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) Laoc.o.o.n[6] struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell.

They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit p.r.o.ne to Holborn bridge.[7]

Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.

[Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41: "there never was such a Shower since Danae's," etc.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost the right p.r.o.nunciation, have _aches_ as one syllable; and then to complete the metre have foisted in "aches _will_ throb." Thus, what the poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, t.i.tle "Errata," p. 81, edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," Part III, canto 2, line 407, where persons are mentioned who "Can by their Pangs and _Aches_ find All turns and changes of the wind."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S _Dispensary_.]

[Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the "Miscellanies": "His only coat, where dust confused with rain, Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.]

[Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in "The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of Fleet Ditch as an ill.u.s.tration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition of Pope, 8vo, 1751.--_W. E. B._]

ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK 1710

Whoever pleases to inquire Why yonder steeple wants a spire, The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1]

The philosophic cause will show.

Once on a time a western blast, At least twelve inches overcast, Reckoning roof, weatherc.o.c.k, and all, Which came with a prodigious fall; And, tumbling topsy-turvy round, Lit with its bottom on the ground: For, by the laws of gravitation, It fell into its proper station.

This is the little strutting pile You see just by the churchyard stile; The walls in tumbling gave a knock, And thus the steeple got a shock; From whence the neighbouring farmer calls The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2]

The vicar once a-week creeps in, Sits with his knees up to his chin; Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, Till the small ragged flock is met.

A traveller, who by did pa.s.s, Observed the roof behind the gra.s.s; On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, And saw the parson creeping out: Was much surprised to see a crow Venture to build his nest so low.

A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought The crib was down, the blackbird caught.

A third, who lost his way by night, Was forced for safety to alight, And, stepping o'er the fabric roof, His horse had like to spoil his hoof.

Warburton[3] took it in his noddle, This building was design'd a model; Or of a pigeon-house or oven, To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in.

Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict, And every one was pleased that heard it; All that you make this stir about Is but a still which wants a spout.

The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd More probably than all the rest; He said, but that it wanted room, It might have been a pigmy's tomb.

The doctor's family came by, And little miss began to cry, Give me that house in my own hand!

Then madam bade the chariot stand, Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, Pray, reach that thing here to the child: That thing, I mean, among the kale; And here's to buy a pot of ale.

The clerk said to her in a heat, What! sell my master's country seat, Where he comes every week from town!

He would not sell it for a crown.

Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother; In half an hour thou'lt make another.

Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss A finer house ten times than this; The dean will give me willow sticks, And Joe my ap.r.o.n-full of bricks.