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

[Footnote 4: The Irish name of a farm the Dean took of Sir Arthur Acheson, and was to build on, but changed his mind, and called it Drapier's Hill.

See the poem so named, and "The Dean's Reasons for not building at Drapier's-Hill," _ante_, p.107. _--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's.]

[Footnote 6: A parody on the phrase, "As brave as his sword."--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 7: My lady's waiting-maid.]

[Footnote 8: Montezuma or Mutezuma, the last Emperor of Mexico and the richest, taken prisoner by Hernando Cortes, about 1511, who also obtained possession of the whole empire. Hakluyt's "Navigations," etc., vols.

viii, ix.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: The butler.]

[Footnote 10: The housekeeper.]

[Footnote 11: The agent.]

ROBIN AND HARRY.[1] 1730

Robin to beggars with a curse, Throws the last shilling in his purse; And when the coachman comes for pay, The rogue must call another day.

Grave Harry, when the poor are pressing Gives them a penny and G.o.d's blessing; But always careful of the main, With twopence left, walks home in rain.

Robin from noon to night will prate, Run out in tongue, as in estate; And, ere a twelvemonth and a day, Will not have one new thing to say.

Much talking is not Harry's vice; He need not tell a story twice: And, if he always be so thrifty, His fund may last to five-and-fifty.

It so fell out that cautious Harry, As soldiers use, for love must marry, And, with his dame, the ocean cross'd; (All for Love, or the World well Lost!) [2]

Repairs a cabin gone to ruin, Just big enough to shelter two in; And in his house, if anybody come, Will make them welcome to his modic.u.m Where Goody Julia milks the cows, And boils potatoes for her spouse; Or darns his hose, or mends his breeches, While Harry's fencing up his ditches.

Robin, who ne'er his mind could fix, To live without a coach-and-six, To patch his broken fortunes, found A mistress worth five thousand pound; Swears he could get her in an hour, If gaffer Harry would endow her; And sell, to pacify his wrath, A birth-right for a mess of broth.

Young Harry, as all Europe knows, Was long the quintessence of beaux; But, when espoused, he ran the fate That must attend the married state; From gold brocade and shining armour, Was metamorphosed to a farmer; His grazier's coat with dirt besmear'd; Nor twice a-week will shave his beard.

Old Robin, all his youth a sloven, At fifty-two, when he grew loving, Clad in a coat of paduasoy, A flaxen wig, and waistcoat gay, Powder'd from shoulder down to flank, In courtly style addresses Frank; Twice ten years older than his wife, Is doom'd to be a beau for life; Supplying those defects by dress, Which I must leave the world to guess.

[Footnote 1: A lively account of these two gentlemen occurs in Dr. King's Anecdotes of his Own Times, p. 137 _et seq_., who confirms the peculiarities which Swift has enumerated in the text.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: The t.i.tle of Dryden's Play, founded on the story of Antony and Cleopatra.--_W. E. B._]

A PANEGYRIC ON THE DEAN

IN THE PERSON OF A LADY IN THE NORTH [l] 1730

Resolved my grat.i.tude to show, Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe, Too long I have my thanks delay'd; Your favours left too long unpaid; But now, in all our s.e.x's name, My artless Muse shall sing your fame.

Indulgent you to female kind, To all their weaker sides are blind: Nine more such champions as the Dean Would soon restore our ancient reign; How well to win the ladies' hearts, You celebrate their wit and parts!

How have I felt my spirits raised, By you so oft, so highly praised!

Transform'd by your convincing tongue To witty, beautiful, and young, I hope to quit that awkward shame, Affected by each vulgar dame, To modesty a weak pretence; And soon grow pert on men of sense; To show my face with scornful air; Let others match it if they dare.

Impatient to be out of debt, O, may I never once forget The bard who humbly deigns to chuse Me for the subject of his Muse!

Behind my back, before my nose, He sounds my praise in verse and prose.

My heart with emulation burns, To make you suitable returns; My grat.i.tude the world shall know; And see, the printer's boy below; Ye hawkers all, your voices lift; "A Panegyric on Dean Swift!"

And then, to mend the matter still, "By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!"[2]

I thus begin: My grateful Muse Salutes the Dean in different views; Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor; Robert and Darby's[3] coadjutor; And, as you in commission sit, To rule the dairy next to Kit;[4]

In each capacity I mean To sing your praise. And first as Dean: Envy must own, you understand your Precedence, and support your grandeur: Nor of your rank will bate an ace, Except to give Dean Daniel[5] place.

In you such dignity appears, So suited to your state and years!

With ladies what a strict decorum!

With what devotion you adore 'em!

Treat me with so much complaisance, As fits a princess in romance!

By your example and a.s.sistance, The fellows learn to know their distance.

Sir Arthur, since you set the pattern, No longer calls me snipe and slattern, Nor dares he, though he were a duke, Offend me with the least rebuke.

Proceed we to your preaching [5] next!

How nice you split the hardest text!

How your superior learning shines Above our neighbouring dull divines!

At Beggar's Opera not so full pit Is seen as when you mount our pulpit.

Consider now your conversation: Regardful of your age and station, You ne'er were known by pa.s.sion stirr'd To give the least offensive word: But still, whene'er you silence break, Watch every syllable you speak: Your style so clear, and so concise, We never ask to hear you twice.

But then a parson so genteel, So nicely clad from head to heel; So fine a gown, a band so clean, As well become St. Patrick's Dean, Such reverential awe express, That cowboys know you by your dress!

Then, if our neighbouring friends come here How proud are we when you appear, With such address and graceful port, As clearly shows you bred at court!

Now raise your spirits, Mr. Dean, I lead you to a n.o.bler scene.

When to the vault you walk in state, In quality of butler's [6] mate; You next to Dennis [7] bear the sway: To you we often trust the key: Nor can he judge with all his art So well, what bottle holds a quart: What pints may best for bottles pa.s.s Just to give every man his gla.s.s: When proper to produce the best; And what may serve a common guest.

With Dennis you did ne'er combine, Not you, to steal your master's wine, Except a bottle now and then, To welcome brother serving-men; But that is with a good design, To drink Sir Arthur's health and mine, Your master's honour to maintain: And get the like returns again.

Your usher's[8] post must next be handled: How blest am I by such a man led!

Under whose wise and careful guardship I now despise fatigue and hardship, Familiar grown to dirt and wet, Though draggled round, I scorn to fret: From you my chamber damsels learn My broken hose to patch and darn.

Now as a jester I accost you; Which never yet one friend has lost you.

You judge so nicely to a hair, How far to go, and when to spare; By long experience grown so wise, Of every taste to know the size; There's none so ignorant or weak To take offence at what you speak.[9]

Whene'er you joke, 'tis all a case Whether with Dermot, or his grace; With Teague O'Murphy, or an earl; A d.u.c.h.ess, or a kitchen girl.

With such dexterity you fit Their several talents with your wit, That Moll the chambermaid can smoke, And Gahagan[10] take every joke.

I now become your humble suitor To let me praise you as my tutor.[11]

Poor I, a savage[12] bred and born, By you instructed every morn, Already have improved so well, That I have almost learnt to spell: The neighbours who come here to dine, Admire to hear me speak so fine.

How enviously the ladies look, When they surprise me at my book!

And sure as they're alive at night, As soon as gone will show their spight: Good lord! what can my lady mean, Conversing with that rusty Dean!

She's grown so nice, and so penurious,[13]

With Socrates and Epicurius!

How could she sit the livelong day, Yet never ask us once to play?

But I admire your patience most; That when I'm duller than a post, Nor can the plainest word p.r.o.nounce, You neither fume, nor fret, nor flounce; Are so indulgent, and so mild, As if I were a darling child.

So gentle is your whole proceeding, That I could spend my life in reading.

You merit new employments daily: Our thatcher, ditcher, gardener, baily.

And to a genius so extensive No work is grievous or offensive: Whether your fruitful fancy lies To make for pigs convenient styes; Or ponder long with anxious thought To banish rats that haunt our vault: Nor have you grumbled, reverend Dean, To keep our poultry sweet and clean; To sweep the mansion-house they dwell in, And cure the rank unsavoury smelling.

Now enter as the dairy handmaid: Such charming b.u.t.ter [14] never man made.

Let others with fanatic face Talk of their milk for babes of grace; From tubs their snuffling nonsense utter; Thy milk shall make us tubs of b.u.t.ter.

The bishop with his foot may burn it,[15]

But with his hand the Dean can churn it.

How are the servants overjoy'd To see thy deanship thus employ'd!

Instead of poring on a book, Providing b.u.t.ter for the cook!

Three morning hours you toss and shake The bottle till your fingers ache; Hard is the toil, nor small the art, The b.u.t.ter from the whey to part: Behold a frothy substance rise; Be cautious or your bottle flies.

The b.u.t.ter comes, our fears are ceased; And out you squeeze an ounce at least.

Your reverence thus, with like success, (Nor is your skill or labour less,) When bent upon some smart lampoon, Will toss and turn your brain till noon; Which in its jumblings round the skull, Dilates and makes the vessel full: While nothing comes but froth at first, You think your giddy head will burst; But squeezing out four lines in rhyme, Are largely paid for all your time.

But you have raised your generous mind To works of more exalted kind.

Palladio was not half so skill'd in The grandeur or the art of building.

Two temples of magnific size Attract the curious traveller's eyes, That might be envied by the Greeks; Raised up by you in twenty weeks: Here gentle G.o.ddess Cloacine Receives all offerings at her shrine.