The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 14

MY LADY'S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN

JULY 28, 1728

Sure never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy, So teazed day and night By a Dean and a Knight.

To punish my sins, Sir Arthur begins, And gives me a wipe, With Skinny and Snipe:[2], His malice is plain, Hallooing the Dean.

The Dean never stops, When he opens his chops; I'm quite overrun With rebus and pun.

Before he came here, To spunge for good cheer, I sat with delight, From morning till night, With two bony thumbs Could rub my old gums, Or scratching my nose And jogging my toes; But at present, forsooth, I must not rub a tooth.

When my elbows he sees Held up by my knees, My arms, like two props, Supporting my chops, And just as I handle 'em Moving all like a pendulum; He trips up my props, And down my chin drops From my head to my heels, Like a clock without wheels; I sink in the spleen, A useless machine.

If he had his will, I should never sit still: He comes with his whims I must move my limbs; I cannot be sweet Without using my feet; To lengthen my breath, He tires me to death.

By the worst of all squires, Thro' bogs and thro' briers, Where a cow would be startled, I'm in spite of my heart led; And, say what I will, Haul'd up every hill; Till, daggled and tatter'd, My spirits quite shatter'd, I return home at night, And fast, out of spite: For I'd rather be dead, Than it e'er should be said, I was better for him, In stomach or limb.

But now to my diet; No eating in quiet, He's still finding fault, Too sour or too salt: The wing of a chick I hardly can pick: But trash without measure I swallow with pleasure.

Next, for his diversion, He rails at my person.

What court breeding this is!

He takes me to pieces: From shoulder to flank I'm lean and am lank; My nose, long and thin, Grows down to my chin; My chin will not stay, But meets it halfway; My fingers, prolix, Are ten crooked sticks: He swears my el--bows Are two iron crows, Or sharp pointed rocks, And wear out my smocks: To 'scape them, Sir Arthur Is forced to lie farther, Or his sides they would gore Like the tusks of a boar.

Now changing the scene But still to the Dean; He loves to be bitter at A lady illiterate; If he sees her but once, He'll swear she's a dunce; Can tell by her looks A hater of books; Thro' each line of her face Her folly can trace; Which spoils every feature Bestow'd her by nature; But sense gives a grace To the homeliest face: Wise books and reflection Will mend the complexion: (A civil divine!

I suppose, meaning mine!) No lady who wants them, Can ever be handsome.

I guess well enough What he means by this stuff: He haws and he hums, At last out it comes: What, madam? No walking, No reading, nor talking?

You're now in your prime, Make use of your time.

Consider, before You come to threescore, How the hussies will fleer Where'er you appear; "That silly old puss Would fain be like us: What a figure she made In her tarnish'd brocade!"

And then he grows mild: Come, be a good child: If you are inclined To polish your mind, Be adored by the men Till threescore and ten, And kill with the spleen The jades of sixteen; I'll show you the way; Read six hours a-day.

The wits will frequent ye, And think you but twenty.

[To make you learn faster, I'll be your schoolmaster And leave you to choose The books you peruse.[3]]

Thus was I drawn in; Forgive me my sin.

At breakfast he'll ask An account of my task.

Put a word out of joint, Or miss but a point, He rages and frets, His manners forgets; And as I am serious, Is very imperious.

No book for delight Must come in my sight; But, instead of new plays, Dull Bacon's Essays, And pore every day on That nasty Pantheon.[4]

If I be not a drudge, Let all the world judge.

'Twere better be blind, Than thus be confined.

But while in an ill tone, I murder poor Milton, The Dean you will swear, Is at study or prayer.

He's all the day sauntering, With labourers bantering, Among his colleagues, A parcel of Teagues, Whom he brings in among us And bribes with mundungus.

[He little believes How they laugh in their sleeves.]

Hail, fellow, well met, All dirty and wet: Find out, if you can, Who's master, who's man; Who makes the best figure, The Dean or the digger; And which is the best At cracking a jest.

[Now see how he sits Perplexing his wits In search of a motto To fix on his grotto.]

How proudly he talks Of zigzags and walks, And all the day raves Of cradles and caves; And boasts of his feats, His grottos and seats; Shows all his gewgaws, And gapes for applause; A fine occupation For one in his station!

A hole where a rabbit Would scorn to inhabit, Dug out in an hour; He calls it a bower.

But, O! how we laugh, To see a wild calf Come, driven by heat, And foul the green seat; Or run helter-skelter, To his arbour for shelter, Where all goes to ruin The Dean has been doing: The girls of the village Come flocking for pillage, Pull down the fine briers And thorns to make fires; But yet are so kind To leave something behind: No more need be said on't, I smell when I tread on't.

Dear friend, Doctor Jinny.

If I could but win ye, Or Walmsley or Whaley, To come hither daily, Since fortune, my foe, Will needs have it so, That I'm, by her frowns, Condemn'd to black gowns; No squire to be found The neighbourhood round; (For, under the rose, I would rather choose those) If your wives will permit ye, Come here out of pity, To ease a poor lady, And beg her a play-day.

So may you be seen No more in the spleen; May Walmsley give wine Like a hearty divine!

May Whaley disgrace Dull Daniel's whey-face!

And may your three spouses Let you lie at friends' houses!

[Footnote 1: Lady Acheson.]

[Footnote 2: See _ante_, p.94 _W.--W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 3: Added from the Dean's ma.n.u.script.]

[Footnote 4: "The Pantheon," containing the mythological systems of the Greeks and Romans, by Andrew Tooke, A.M., first published, 1713. The little work became very popular. The copy I have is of the thirty-sixth edition, with plates, 1831. It is still in demand, as it deserves to be.

Compare Leigh Hunt's remark on the ill.u.s.trations to the "Pantheon," cited by Mr. Coleridge in his notes to "Don Juan," Canto I, St. xli, Byron's Works, edit. 1903.--_W. E. B._]

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728

DERMOT, SHEELAH

A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight; Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1]

While each with stubbed knife removed the roots, That raised between the stones their daily shoots; As at their work they sate in counterview, With mutual beauty smit, their pa.s.sion grew.

Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain, The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.

DERMOT

My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt, Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt; My spud these nettles from the stones can part; No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.

SHEELAH

My love for gentle Dermot faster grows, Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.

Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O!

Love rooted out, again will never grow.

DERMOT

No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake: (I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur's[2] sake) Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat; The hardest b.u.m will bruise with sitting squat.

SHEELAH

Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide; This petticoat shall save thy dear backside; Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet, Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.

DERMOT

At an old stubborn root I chanced to tug, When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug; A longer ha'p'orth [3] never did I see; This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me.

SHEELAH

In at the pantry door, this morn I slipt, And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt: Dennis[4] was out, and I got hither safe; And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half.

DERMOT

When you saw Tady at long bullets play, You sate and loused him all a sunshine day: How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales, Or crack such lice as his between your nails?

SHEELAH