The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 27

She'll pay the charges to a farthing; Take notice, she has my commission To add them in the next edition; They may outsell a better thing: So, holla, boys; G.o.d save the King!

[Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.--_F._]

CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727

As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, And promised to pay for it when he came back.

His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white; His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't.

The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!"

But, as from the windows the ladies he spied, Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side!

And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry, He swore from his cart, "It was all a d.a.m.n'd lie!"

The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee; Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: Then said, I must speak to the people a little; But I'll see you all d.a.m.n'd before I will whittle.[1]

My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place) He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace.

Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade; My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm, And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm; Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.

[Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."--_W. E. B._]

DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE "DUNCIAD"

1727

POPE has the talent well to speak, But not to reach the ear; His loudest voice is low and weak, The Dean too deaf to hear.

Awhile they on each other look, Then different studies choose; The Dean sits plodding on a book; Pope walks, and courts the Muse.

Now backs of letters, though design'd For those who more will need 'em, Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by some other struck, All turns and motions tries; Till in a lump together stuck, Behold a poem rise:

Yet to the Dean his share allot; He claims it by a canon; That without which a thing is not, Is _causa sine qua non_.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit; For, had our deaf divine Been for your conversation fit, You had not writ a line.

Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed The s.e.xton reason'd well; And justly half the merit claim'd, Because he rang the bell.

A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS

WRITTEN AT LONDON

By poets we are well a.s.sured That love, alas! can ne'er be cured; A complicated heap of ills, Despising boluses and pills.

Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, Since first I gave my heart to you.

Now, by your cruelty hard bound, I strain my guts, my colon wound.

Now jealousy my grumbling tripes a.s.saults with grating, grinding gripes.

When pity in those eyes I view, My bowels wambling make me spew.

When I an amorous kiss design'd, I belch'd a hurricane of wind.

Once you a gentle sigh let fall; Remember how I suck'd it all; What colic pangs from thence I felt, Had you but known, your heart would melt, Like ruffling winds in cavern pent, Till Nature pointed out a vent.

How have you torn my heart to pieces With maggots, humours, and caprices!

By which I got the hemorrhoids; And loathsome worms my _a.n.u.s_ voids.

Whene'er I hear a rival named, I feel my body all inflamed; Which, breaking out in boils and blains, With yellow filth my linen stains; Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, Small-beer I guzzle till I burst; And then I drag a bloated _corpus_, Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus; When, if I cannot purge or stale, I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.

[Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.--_H._]

BOUTS RIMEZ[1]

ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA

Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, Of cla.s.sic beauty, _haec et illa_; Not all his birch inspires such wit As th'ogling beams of Domitilla.

Let n.o.bles toast, in bright champaign, Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; I'll drink her health, again, again, In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla.

At Goodman's Fields I've much admired The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla; But what are they to the soft step, The gliding air of Domitilla?

Virgil has eternized in song The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3]

Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong; He might have dream'd of Domitilla.

Great Theodose condemn'd a town For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4]

And deuce take London! if some knight O' th' city wed not Domitilla.

Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise, Gives us a medal of Plantilla; But O! the empress has not eyes, Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla.

Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy, Piled on the mules of king At-tila, Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie) Or garter, s.n.a.t.c.h'd from Domitilla.

Five years a nymph at certain hamlet, Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a- --bused much my heart, and was a d.a.m.n'd let To verse--but now for Domitilla.

Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6]

And thus I offer up my catch To the snow-white hands of Domitilla.

[Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a line, and to which rhymes must be found.--_W. E. B._]