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Which must, alas! no longer stand,
Behold the cruel Dean in scorn
Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.
Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,
Astonish'd gave a dreadful shriek;
And mother Tellus trembled so,
She scarce recover'd in a week.
The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd,
In prudence and compassion sent
(For none could tell whose turn was next)
Sad omens of the dire event.
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The magpie, lighting on the stock,
Stood chattering with incessant din:
And with her beak gave many a knock,
To rouse and warn the nymph within.
The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,
The ruin of her ancient seat;
And fled in haste, with all her brood,
To seek a more secure retreat.
Last trotted forth the gentle swine,
To ease her itch against the stump,
And dismally was heard to whine,
All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump.
The nymph who dwells in every tree,
(If all be true that poets chant,)
Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree,
Must die with her expiring plant.
Thus, when the gentle Spina found
The thorn committed to her care,
Received its last and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish'd into air.
But from the root a dismal groan
First issuing struck the murderer's ears:
And, in a shrill revengeful tone,
This prophecy he trembling hears:
ÝThou chief contriver of my fall,
Relentless Dean, to mischief born;
My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,
Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.
ÝAnd thy confederate dame, who brags
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That she condemn'd me to the fire,
Shall rend her petticoats to rags,
And wound her legs with every brier.
ÝNor thou, Lord Arthur,[4] shall escape;
To thee I often call'd in vain,
Against that assassin in crape;
Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain:
ÝNor, when I felt the dreadful blow,
Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse;
Since you could see me treated so,
(An old retainer to your house:)
ÝMay that fell Dean, by whose command
Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,
Not leave a thistle on thy land;
Then who will own thee for a Scot?
ÝPigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
Through all my empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges join in leagues,
Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.
ÝAnd thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hallow'd timber down;
ÝWhen thou, suspended high in air,
Diest on a more ignoble tree,
(For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,)
Then, bloody caitiff! think on me.Û
[Footnote 1: A village near the seat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the
Dean made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much
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admired by the knight. Yet the Dean, in one of his unaccountable humours,
gave directions for cutting it down in the absence of Sir Arthur, who
was, of course, highly incensed. By way of making his peace, the Dean
wrote this poem; which had the desired effect.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.]
[Footnote 3: Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of
Stirling, who were both friends of Sir Archibald, and famous for their
poetry.]
[Footnote 4: Sir Arthur Acheson.]
TO DEAN SWIFT
BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728
Good cause have I to sing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier:
He, that of every ear's the charmer,
Now condescends to be my farmer,
And grace my villa with his strains;
Lives such a bard on British plains?
No; not in all the British court;
For none but witlings there resort,
Whose names and works (though dead) are made
Immortal by the Dunciad;
And, sure as monument of brass,
Their fame to future times shall pass;
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of brazen knight they vainly sung;
A subject for their genius fit;
He dares defy both sense and wit.
What dares he not? He can, we know it,
A laureat make that is no poet;
A judge, without the least pretence
To common law, or common sense;
A bishop that is no divine;
And coxcombs in red ribbons shine:
Nay, he can make, what's greater far,
A middle state 'twixt peace and war;
And say, there shall; for years together,
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Be peace and war, and both, and neither.
Happy, O Market-Hill! at least,
That court and courtiers have no taste:
You never else had known the Dean,
But, as of old, obscurely lain;
All things gone on the same dull track,
And Drapier's-Hill been still Drumlack;
But now your name with Penshurst vies,
And wing'd with fame shall reach the skies.
DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S
IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND
The Dean would visit Market-Hill,
Our invitation was but slight;
I said ÝWhy let him, if he will:"
And so I bade Sir Arthur write.
His manners would not let him wait,
Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
And so we see him at our gate
Three days before he was expected,
After a week, a month, a quarter,
And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
Though not a soul would have him stay.
I've said enough to make him blush,
Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,
Nor for my life will take the hint.
But you, my dear, may let him know,
In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaise.
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Or you may say ÝMy wife intends,
Though I should be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite some friends,
And, sir, I know you hate a crowd.Û
Or, ÝMr. Dean I should with joy
Beg you would here continue still,
But we must go to Aghnecloy;[1]
Or Mr. Moore will take it ill.Û
The house accounts are daily rising;
So much his stay doth swell the bills:
My dearest life, it is surprising,
How much he eats, how much he swills.
His brace of puppies how they stuff!
And they must have three meals a-day,
Yet never think they get enough;
His horses too eat all our hay.
O! if I could, how I would maul
His tallow face and wainscot paws,
His beetle brows, and eyes of wall,
And make him soon give up the cause!
Must I be every moment chid
With [2] Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean?
O! that I could but once be rid
Of this insulting tyrant Dean!
[Footnote 1: The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.]
[Footnote 2: The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. See ÝMy
Lady's Lamentation,Û next page. W. E. B.]
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ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL
Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
Though none can tell which of us first shall die.
ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT
We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.
EPITAPH
IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE
Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly served to make folks laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.
Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?
Dickies enough are still behind,
To laugh at by and by.
Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.
MY LADY'S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT
AGAINST THE DEAN
JULY 28, 1728
Sure never did man see
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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
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