The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 30

[Footnote 5: The see of Killaloe was then vacant, and to this bishopric the Reverend Dr. George Carr, chaplain to the Irish House of Commons, was nominated, by letters-patent.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 6: Alluding to the sullen silence of Oxford upon the accession.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 7: This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed, many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of the transcriber.--_Scott._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1]

ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. 1720-21

To the tune of "Packington's Pound."

Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes, Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over, With forty things more: now hear what the law says, Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover.

Though a printer and Dean, Seditiously mean, Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean, We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

In England the dead in woollen are clad, The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on; To be clothed like a carca.s.s would make a Teague mad, Since a living dog better is than a dead lion.

Our wives they grow sullen At wearing of woollen, And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in.

Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

Whoever our trading with England would hinder, To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire, Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder, And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire.

Therefore, I a.s.sure ye, Our n.o.ble grand jury, When they saw the Dean's book, they were in a great fury; They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning, And before _coram n.o.bis_ so oft has been call'd, Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen, And if swearing can do't shall be swingingly maul'd: And as for the Dean, You know whom I mean, If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come off clean.

Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

[Footnote 1: This ballad alludes to the Dean's "Proposal for the use of Irish Manufactures," for which the printer was prosecuted with great violence. Lord Chief-Justice Whitshed sent the jury repeatedly out of court, until he had wearied them into a special verdict. See Swift's Letter to Pope, Jan. 1721, and "Prose Works," vii, 13.--_W. E. B._]

THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS[1]

The bold encroachers on the deep Gain by degrees huge tracts of land, Till Neptune, with one general sweep, Turns all again to barren strand.

The mult.i.tude's capricious pranks Are said to represent the seas, Breaking the bankers and the banks, Resume their own whene'er they please.

Money, the life-blood of the nation, Corrupts and stagnates in the veins, Unless a proper circulation Its motion and its heat maintains.

Because 'tis lordly not to pay, Quakers and aldermen in state, Like peers, have levees every day Of duns attending at their gate.

We want our money on the nail; The banker's ruin'd if he pays: They seem to act an ancient tale; The birds are met to strip the jays.

"Riches," the wisest monarch sings, "Make pinions for themselves to fly;"[2]

They fly like bats on parchment wings, And geese their silver plumes supply.

No money left for squandering heirs!

Bills turn the lenders into debtors: The wish of Nero[3] now is theirs, "That they had never known their letters."

Conceive the works of midnight hags, Tormenting fools behind their backs: Thus bankers, o'er their bills and bags, Sit squeezing images of wax.

Conceive the whole enchantment broke; The witches left in open air, With power no more than other folk, Exposed with all their magic ware.

So powerful are a banker's bills, Where creditors demand their due; They break up counters, doors, and tills, And leave the empty chests in view.

Thus when an earthquake lets in light Upon the G.o.d of gold and h.e.l.l, Unable to endure the sight, He hides within his darkest cell.

As when a conjurer takes a lease From Satan for a term of years, The tenant's in a dismal case, Whene'er the b.l.o.o.d.y bond appears.

A baited banker thus desponds, From his own hand foresees his fall, They have his soul, who have his bonds; 'Tis like the writing on the wall.[4]

How will the caitiff wretch be scared, When first he finds himself awake At the last trumpet, unprepared, And all his grand account to make!

For in that universal call, Few bankers will to heaven be mounters; They'll cry, "Ye shops, upon us fall!

Conceal and cover us, ye counters!"

When other hands the scales shall hold, And they, in men's and angels' sight Produced with all their bills and gold, "Weigh'd in the balance and found light!"

[Footnote 1: This poem was printed some years ago, and it should seem, by the late failure of two bankers, to be somewhat prophetic. It was therefore thought fit to be reprinted.--_Dublin Edition_, 1734.]

[Footnote 2: Solomon, Proverbs, ch. xxiii, v. 5.]

[Footnote 3: Who, in his early days of empire, having to sign the sentence of a condemned criminal, exclaimed: "Quam vellem nescire litteras!" Suetonius, 10; and Seneca, "De Clementia,", cited by Montaigne, "De l'inconstance de nos actions."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Daniel, ch. v, verses 25, 26, 27, 28.--_W. E. B._]

UPON THE HORRID PLOT DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S FRENCH DOG,[1]

IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY

I ask'd a Whig the other night, How came this wicked plot to light?

He answer'd, that a dog of late Inform'd a minister of state.

Said I, from thence I nothing know; For are not all informers so?

A villain who his friend betrays, We style him by no other phrase; And so a perjured dog denotes Porter, and Pendergast, and Oates, And forty others I could name.

WHIG. But you must know this dog was lame.

TORY. A weighty argument indeed!

Your evidence was lame:--proceed: Come, help your lame dog o'er the stile.

WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this while: I mean a dog (without a joke) Can howl, and bark, but never spoke.

TORY. I'm still to seek, which dog you mean; Whether cur Plunkett, or whelp Skean,[2]

An English or an Irish hound; Or t'other puppy, that was drown'd; Or Mason, that abandon'd b.i.t.c.h: Then pray be free, and tell me which: For every stander-by was marking, That all the noise they made was barking.

You pay them well, the dogs have got Their dogs-head in a porridge-pot: And 'twas but just; for wise men say, That every dog must have his day.

Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't, He'd either make a hog or dog on't; And look'd, since he has got his wish, As if he had thrown down a dish, Yet this I dare foretell you from it, He'll soon return to his own vomit.

WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was found By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.