The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 17

When wretched lovers live on air, I beg you'll the chameleon spare; And when you'd make a hero grander, Forget he's like a salamander.[1]

No son of mine shall dare to say, Aurora usher'd in the day, Or ever name the milky-way.

You all agree, I make no doubt, Elijah's mantle is worn out.

The bird of Jove shall toil no more To teach the humble wren to soar.

Your tragic heroes shall not rant, Nor shepherds use poetic cant.

Simplicity alone can grace The manners of the rural race.

Theocritus and Philips be Your guides to true simplicity.

When Damon's soul shall take its flight, Though poets have the second-sight, They shall not see a trail of light.

Nor shall the vapours upwards rise, Nor a new star adorn the skies: For who can hope to place one there, As glorious as Belinda's hair?

Yet, if his name you'd eternize, And must exalt him to the skies; Without a star this may be done: So Tickell mourn'd his Addison.

If Anna's happy reign you praise, Pray, not a word of halcyon days: Nor let my votaries show their skill In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2]

For know I cannot bear to hear The mimicry of "deep, yet clear."

Whene'er my viceroy is address'd, Against the phoenix I protest.

When poets soar in youthful strains, No Phaethon to hold the reins.

When you describe a lovely girl, No lips of coral, teeth of pearl.

Cupid shall ne'er mistake another, However beauteous, for his mother; Nor shall his darts at random fly From magazine in Celia's eye.

With woman compounds I am cloy'd, Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3]

For foreign aid what need they roam, Whom fate has amply blest at home?

Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand, Has form'd a model for your land, Whom Jove endued with every grace; The glory of the Granard race; Now destined by the powers divine The blessing of another line.

Then, would you paint a matchless dame, Whom you'd consign to endless fame?

Invoke not Cytherea's aid, Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; Nor need you on the Graces call; Take qualities from Donegal.[4]

[Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," _ante_, p.

46.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.]

[Footnote 3: _Ante_, p. 50.]

[Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.--_Scott_.]

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST

Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he executed the following very spirited translation.--_W. E. B._

TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720

O'ROURKE'S n.o.ble fare Will ne'er be forgot, By those who were there, Or those who were not.

His revels to keep, We sup and we dine On seven score sheep, Fat bullocks, and swine.

Usquebaugh to our feast In pails was brought up, A hundred at least, And a madder[1] our cup.

O there is the sport!

We rise with the light In disorderly sort, From snoring all night.

O how was I trick'd!

My pipe it was broke, My pocket was pick'd, I lost my new cloak.

I'm rifled, quoth Nell, Of mantle and kercher,[2]

Why then fare them well, The de'el take the searcher.

Come, harper, strike up; But, first, by your favour, Boy, give us a cup: Ah! this hath some savour.

O'Rourke's jolly boys Ne'er dreamt of the matter, Till, roused by the noise, And musical clatter,

They bounce from their nest, No longer will tarry, They rise ready drest, Without one Ave-Mary.

They dance in a round, Cutting capers and ramping; A mercy the ground Did not burst with their stamping.

The floor is all wet With leaps and with jumps, While the water and sweat Splish-splash in their pumps.

Bless you late and early, Laughlin O'Enagin![3]

But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely.

Margery Grinagin.[5]

Bring straw for our bed, Shake it down to the feet, Then over us spread The winnowing sheet.

To show I don't flinch, Fill the bowl up again: Then give us a pinch Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6]

Good lord! what a sight, After all their good cheer, For people to fight In the midst of their beer!

They rise from their feast, And hot are their brains, A cubit at least The length of their skeans.[7]

What stabs and what cuts, What clattering of sticks; What strokes on the guts, What bastings and kicks!

With cudgels of oak, Well harden'd in flame, A hundred heads broke, A hundred struck lame.

You churl, I'll maintain My father built Lusk, The castle of Slane, And Carrick Drumrusk:

The Earl of Kildare, And Moynalta his brother, As great as they are, I was nurst by their mother.[8]

Ask that of old madam: She'll tell you who's who, As far up as Adam, She knows it is true.

Come down with that beam, If cudgels are scarce, A blow on the weam, Or a kick on the a----se.

[Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the women.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.--_F_.]

[Footnote 4: An Irish oath.--_F_.]

[Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.--_F_.]