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The doctors, tender of their fame,

Madam, your husband will attend
Wisely on me lay all the blame.

The funeral of so good a friend ?
“ We must confess, his case was nice;

No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight;
But he would never take advice.

And he 's engag'd to-morrow night:
Had he been rul'd, for aught appears,

My lady Club will take it ill,
He might have liv'd these twenty years :

If he should fail her at quadrille.
For, when we open'd him, we found

He lov'd the Dean (I lead a heart :)
That all his vital parts were sound.”

But dearest friends, they say, must part.
From Dublin soon to London spread,

His time was come ; he ran his race ;
Tis told at court, “ the Dean is dead."

We hope he's in a better place."
And lady Suffolk, in the spleen,

Why do we grieve that friends should die ?
Runs laughing up to tell the queen.

No loss more easy to supply.
The queen, so gracious, mild, and good,

One year is past; a different scene!
Cries, “ Is he gone ! 'tis time he should.

No farther mention of the Dean,
He's dead, you say; then let him rot :

Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
I'm glad the medalsf were forgot.

Than if he never did exist.
I promis'd him, I own; but when ?

Where's now the favourite of Apollo ?
I only was the princess then :

Departed : - and his works must follow ;
But now, as consort of the king,

Must undergo the common fate;
You know, 'tis quite another thing."

His kind of wit is out of date.
Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,

Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:

Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. " Why, if he dy'd without his shoes,”

Says Lintot, “ I have heard the name Cries Bob, “ I'm sorry for the news :

He dy'd a year ago."— “ The same. Oh, were the wretch but living still,

He searches all the shop in vain. And in his place my good friend Will!

“Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane : Or had a mitre on his head,

I sent them, with a load of books, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!"

Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: To faney they could live a year! Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains !

I find you 're but a stranger here. And then, to make them pass the glibber,

The Dean was famous in his time, Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.

And had a kind of knack at rhyme. He 'll treat me as he does my betters,

His way of writing now is past : Publish my will, my life, my letters;

The town has got a better taste. Revive the libels born to die :

I keep no antiquated stuff;
Which Pope must bear as well as I.

But spick and span I have enough.
Here shift the scene to represent,

Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em : How those I love my death lament.

Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay

This ode you never yet have seen,
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

By Stephen Duck, upon the queen.
St. John himself will scarce forbear

Then here 's a letter finely penn'd
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.

Against the Craftsman and his friend : The rest will give a shrug, and cry,

It clearly shows that all reflection “ I'm sorry - but we all must die !"

On ministers is disaffection.
Indifference, clad in wisdom's guise,

Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
All fortitude of mind supplies :

And Mr. Henley's last oration. For how can stony bowels melt

The hawkers have not got them yet: In those who never pity felt !

Your honour please to buy a set ? When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,

“ Here 's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth Resigning to the will of God.

edition; The fools, my juniors by a year,

'Tis read by every politician : Are tortur'd with suspense and fear ;

The country-members, when in town, Who wisely thought my age a screen,

To all their boroughs send them down
When death approach'd, to stand between :

You never met a thing so smart;
The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling; The courtiers have them all by heart:
They mourn for me without dissembling.

Those maids of honour who can read,
My female friends, whose tender hearts

Are taught to use them for their creed.
Have better learn'd to act their parts,

The reverend author's good intention Receive the news in doleful dumps :

Hath been rewarded with a pension * : “ The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps

He doth an honour to his gown, Then, Lord have mercy on his soul !

By bravely running priest-craft down : (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)

He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, Six deans, they say, must bear the pall :

That Moses was a grand impostor ; (I wish I knew what king to call.)

That all his miracles were cheats,

Perform'd as jugglers do their feats : * Mrs. Howard, at one time a favourite with the The church had never such a writer ;

A shame he hath not got a mitre!" + Which the Dean in vain expected, in return for a small present he had sent to the princess. N. * Wolston is here confounded with Woolaston. N.


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Dean. N.

Suppose me dead; and then suppose

He would have deem'd it a disgrace, A club assembled at the Rose;

If such a wretch liad known his face, Where, from discourse of this and that,

On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, I grow the subject of their chat.

He vented oft his wrath in vain : And while they toss my name about,

squires to market brought, With favour some, and some without ;

Who sell their souls and **** for nought : One, quite indifferent in the cause,

The **** **** go joyful back, My character impartial draws.

To rob the church, their tenants rack; “ The Dean, if we believe report,

Go snacks with ***** justices, Was never ill receiv'd at court,

And keep the peace to pick up fees; Although, ironically grave,

In every job to have a share, He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave;

A gaol or turnpike to repair; To steal a hint was never known,

And turn ***** to public roads But what he writ was all his own."

Commodious to their own abodes. “ Sir, I have heard another story;

“ He never thought an honour done him, He was a most confounded Tory,

Because a peer was proud to own him; And grew, or he is much bely'd,

Would rather slip aside, and choose Extremely dull, before he dy'd.

To talk with wits in dirty shoes; “ Can we the Drapier then forget?

And scorn the tools with stars and garters, Is not our nation in his debt?

So often seen caressing Chartres. 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters !"

He never courted men in station, “ He should have left them for his betters : Nor persons held in admiration; We had a hundred abler men,

Of no man's greatness was afraid, Nor need depend upon his pen.

Because he sought for no man's aid. Say what you will about his reading,

Though trusted long in great affairs, You never can defend his breeding ;

He gave himself no haughty airs : Who, in his satires running riot,

Without regarding private ends, Could never leave the world in quiet;

Spent all his credit for his friends ; Attacking, when he took the whim,

And only chose the wise and good; Court, city, camp all one to him.

No flatterers; no allies in blood : But why would he, except he slobber'd,

But succour'd virtue in distress, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert,

And seldom fail'd of good success ; Whose counsels aid the sovereign power

As numbers in their hearts must own, To save the nation every hour!

Who, but for him, had been unknown. What scenes of evil he unravels,

“ He kept with princes due decorum; In satires, libels, lying travels;

Yet never stood in awe before 'em. Not sparing his own clergy cloth,

He follow'd David's lesson just; But eats into it, like a moth !"

In princes never put his trust : “ Perhaps I may allow the Dean

And, would you make him truly sour, Had too much satire in his vein,

Provoke him

with a slave in power. And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,

The Irish senate if you nam’d, Because no age could more deserve it.

With what impatience he declaim'd ! Yet malice never was his aim;

Fair LIBERTY was all his cry; He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name.

For her he stood prepar'd to die; No individual could resent,

For her he boldly stood alone ; Where thousands equally were meant :

For her he oft expos’d his own. His satire points at no defect,

Two kingdoms, just as faction led, But what all mortals may correct;

Had set a price upon his head; For he abhorr'd the senseless tribe

But not a traitor could be found, Who call it humour when they gibe :

To sell him for six hundred pound. He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,

“ Had he but spar'd his tongue and pes, Whose owners set not up for beaux.

He might have rose like other men: True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,

But power was never in his thought, Unless it offer'd to be witty.

And wealth he valued not a groat : Those who their ignorance confest,

Ingratitude he often found, He ne'er offended with a jest ;

And pity'd those who meant the wound; But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote

But kept the tenour of his mind, A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.

To merit well of human-kind; Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd,

Nor made a sacrifice of those Must be or ridiculd or lash'd.

Who still were true, to please his foes If you resent it, who is to blame?

He labour'd many a fruitless hour, He neither knows you, nor your name.

To reconcile his friends in power ; Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,

Saw mischief by a faction brewing, Because its owner is a duke?

While they pursued each other's ruin. His friendships, still to few confin'd,

But, finding vain was all his care, Were always of the middling kind;

He left the court in mere despair. No fools of rank, or mongrel breed,

“ And, oh! how short are human schemes! Who fain would pass for lords indeed :

Here ended all our golden dreams. Where titles give no right or power,

What St. John's skill in state affairs, And peerage is a wither'd flower;

What Ornand's valour, Oxford's cares,


To save their sinking country lent,

For party he would scarce have bled : Was all destroy'd by one event.

say no more because he's dead. Too soon that precious life was ended,

What writings has he left behind ?" On which alone our weal depended.

“ I hear they 're of a different kind : When up a dangerous faction starts,

A few in verse ; but most in prose With wrath and vengeance in their hearts ;

“ Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose : By solemn league and covenant bound,

All scribbled in the worst of times, To ruin, slaughter, and confound ;

To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes ; To turn religion to a fable,

To praise queen Anne, nay more, defend her, And make the government a Babel ;

As never favouring the Pretender : Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,

Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;

Against the court to show his spite : To sacrifice Old England's glory,

Perhaps his travels, part the third ; And make her infamous in story :

A lie at every second word – When such a tempest shook the land,

Offensive to a loyal ear: How could unguarded virtue stand!


not one sermon, you may swear. “ With horrour, grief, despair, the Dean

“ He knew an hundred pleasing stories, Beheld the dire destructive scene :

With all the turns of Whigs and Tories : His friends in exile, or the Tower,

Was cheerful to his dying day ; Himself within the frown of power ;

And friends would let him have his way. Pursued by base envenom'd pens,

“ As for his works in verse or prose, Far to the land of sand fens;

I own myself no judge of those. A servile race in folly nurs'd,

Nor can I tell what critics thought them; Who truckle most, when treated worst.

But this I know, all people bought them, “ By innocence and resolution,

As with a moral view design'd He bore continual persecution;

To please and to reform mankind : While numbers to preferment rose,

And, if he often miss'd his aim, Whose merit was to be his foes;

The world must own it to their shame, When ev'n his own familiar friends,

The praise is his, and theirs the blame.
Intent upon their private ends,


the little wealth he had Like renegadoes now he feels,

To build a house for fools and mad; Against him lifting up their heels.

To show, by one satiric touch, “ The Dean did, by his pen, defeat

No nation wanted it so much. An infamous destructive cheat;

That kingdom he hath left his debtor ; Taught fools their interest how to know,

I wish it soon may have a better. And gave them arms to ward the blow.

And, since you dread no further lashes,
Envy hath own'd it was his doing,

Methinks you may forgive his ashes."
To save that hapless land from ruin ;
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.

“ To save them from their evil fate, In him was held a crime of state.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. A wicked monster on the bench,

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEWWhose fury blood could never quench;

TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. As vile and profligate a villain,

As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian ;
Who long all justice had discarded,

Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded ;
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,

In ancient times, as story tells,
And make him of his zeal repent :

The saints would often leave their cells, But Heaven his innocence defends,

And stroll about, but hide their quality, The grateful people stand his friends ;

To try good people's hospitality, Not strains of law, nor judges' frown,

It happen'd on a winter-night, Nor topics brought to please the crown,

As authors of the legend write, Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd,

Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, Prevail to bring him in convict.

Taking their tour in masquerade, “ In exile, with a steady heart,

Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went He spent his life's declining part ;

To a small village down in Kent; Where folly, pride, and faction sway,

Where, in the strollers' canting strain, Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.”

They begg'd from door to door in vain, “ Alas, poor Dean! his only scope

Tried every tone might pity win; Was to be held a misanthrope.

But not a soul would let them in. This into general odium drew him,

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Which if he lik’d, much good may 't do him. Treated at this ungodly rate, His zeal was not to lash our crimes,

Having through all the village past, But discontent against the times :

To a small cottage came at last ; For, bad we made him timely offers,

Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, To raise his post, or fill his coffers,

Callid in the neighbourhood Philemon; Perhaps he might have truckled down,

Who kindly did these saints invite Like other brethren of his gown;

In his poor hut to pass the night;

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And then the liospitable sire

The ballads, pasted on the wall, Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire ;

Of Joan of France, and English Moll, While he from out the chimney took

Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, A Aitch of bacon off the hook,

The Little Children in the Wood, And freely from the fattest side

Now seem'd to look abundance better, Cut out large slices to be fry'd ;

Improv'd in picture, size, and letter ; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,

And, high in order plac'd, describe Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,

The heraldry of every tribe. " And saw it fairly twice go round;

A bedstead of the antique mode, Yet (what is wonderful!) they found

Compact of timber many a load, 'Twas still replenish'd to the top,

Such as our ancestors did use., As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.

Was metamorphos'd into pews ; The good old couple were amaz'd,

Which still their ancient nature keep And often on each other gaz'd;

By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep. For both were frightend to the heart,

The cottage by such feats as these And just began to cry, “ What ar't?"

Grown to a church by just degrees, Then softly turn'd aside to view

The hermits then desir'd their host Whether the lights were burning blue.

To ask for what he fancy'd most. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't,

Philemon, having paus'd awhile, Told them their calling, and their errand :

Return'd them thanks in homely style : “ Good folks, you need not be afraid,

Then said, “ My house is grown so fine, We are but saints," the hermits said :

Methinks I still would call it mine; « No hurt shall come to you or yours :

I'm old, and fain would live at ease; But for that pack of churlish boors,

Make me the parson, if you please.” Not fit to live on Christian ground,

He spoke, and presently he feels They and their houses shall be drown'd;

His grazier's coat fall down his heels : Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,

He sees, yet hardly can believe, And grow a church before your eyes.

About each arm a pudding-sleeve ; They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft His waistcoat to a cassoc grew, The roof began to mount aloft ;

And both assum'd a sable hue ; Aloft rose every beam and rafter ;

But, being old, continued just The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

As thread-bare, and as full of dust. The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,

His talk was now of tithes and dues : Became a steeple with a spire.

He smok'd his pipe, and read the news; The kettle to the top was hoist,

Knew how to preach old sermons nest

, And there stood fasten'd to a joist,

Vamp'd in the preface and the text; But with the upside down, to show

At christenings well could act his part, Its inclination for below :

And had the service all by heart; In vain ; for a superior force,

Wish'd women might have children fast, Apply'd at bottom, stops its course;

And thought whose sow had farrow'd last ; Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,

Against dissenters would repine, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

And stood up firm for right divine ; A wooden jack, which had almost

Found his head fill'd with many a system; Lost by disuse the art to roast,

But classic authors, A sudden alteration feels,

Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Increas'd by new intestine wheels;

Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce at And, what exalts the wonder more,

Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen The number ma the motion slower:

Good pinners edg'd with colberteen ; The flier, though 't had leaden feet,

Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could sce't; Became black sattin, flounc'd with lace. But, slacken'd by some secret power,

Plain Goody would no longer down; Now hardly moves an inch an hour.

'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. The jack and chimney, near ally'd,

Philemon was in great surprise, Had never left each other's side :

And hardly could believe his eyes, The chimney to a steeple grown,

Amaz'd to see her look so prim; The jack would not be left alone ;

And she admir'd as much at himn. But, up against the steeple rear'd,

Thus happy in their change of life Became a clock, and still adher'd;

Were several years this man and wife; And still its love to household cares,

When, on a day, which prov'd their last, By a shrill voice at noon, declares,

Discoursing o'er old stories past, Warning the cook-maid not to burn

They went by chance, amidst their talk, That roast meat which it cannot turn.

To the church-yard to take a walk; The groaning-chair began to crawl,

When Baucis hastily cry'd out, Like a huge snail, along the wall;

My dear, I see your forehead sprout!" (us There stuck aloft in public view,

“ Sprout!" quoth the man; “what's this you te? And, with small change, a pulpit grew.

I hope you don't believe me jealous?
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,

* The tribes of Israel are sometimes distinguished To a less noble substance chang'd,

in country churches by the ensigns given to their Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.

by Jacob.

he ne'er miss'd 'em.

But yet, methinks, I feel it true;

There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain, And really yours is budding too:

I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain; Nay - now I cannot stir my foot ;

A handsome addition for wine and good cheer,
It feels as if 'twere taking root.”

Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year :
Description would but tire my Muse; With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stor'd;
In short, they both were turn'd to Yews. No little scrub joint shall come on my board ;
Old Goodman Dobson of the green

And you and the Dean no more shall combine
Remembers, he the trees has seen :

To stint me at night to one bottle of wine;
He 'll talk of them from noon till night, Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin
And goes with folks to show the sight: A stone and a quarter of beef from my surloin.
On Sundays, after evening prayer,

If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant !
He gathers all the parish there;

My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on 't: Points out the place of either yew ;

In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent;
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew :

Whatever they give me, I must be content,
Till once a parson of our town,

Or join with the court in every debate;
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;

And rather than that, I would lose my estate.”
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd

Thus ended the knight; thus began his meek wife :
How much the other tree was griev'd, “ It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life.
Grew scrubbed, dy'd a-top, was stunted; I'm grown a mere mopus; no company comes,
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull Rums

With parsons what lady can keep herself clean?
I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean

But if you will give us a barrack, my dear,

The captain, I'm sure, will always come here;

I then shall not value his Deanship a straw, 1709.

For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe;

Or should he pretend to be brisk and alert, Now hardly here and there an hackney coach Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert; Appearing, show'd the ruddy Morn's approach. That men of his coat should be minding their prayers, Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, And not among ladies to give themselves airs. And softly stole to discompose her own;

Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door The knight his opinion resolv'd to maintain. Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. But Hannah ||, who listen'd to all that was past, Now Moll had whirld her mop with dextrous airs, And could not endure so vulgar a taste, Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.

As soon as her ladyship call’d to be drest, - The youth with broomy stumps began to trace Cry'd, “ Madam, why surely my master 's possest !

The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place. Sir Arthur the maltster! how fine it will sound ! = The small-coal-man was heard with cadence deep, I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground.

Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep. But madam, I guess'd there would never come good, Duns at his lordship’s gate began to meet; When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood. I And brick-dust Moll had scream'd through half the And now my dream 's out; for I was a-dream'd street.

That I saw a huge rat - O dear, how I scream'd! The turnkey now his flock returning sees,

And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes ; Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees :

And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill news. The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,

“ Dear madam, had you but the spirit to tease, And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands. You might have a barrack whenever you please :

And, madam, I always believ'd you so stout,
That for twenty denials you would not give out.
If I had a husband like him, I purtest,

Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest; THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED: And, rather than come in the same pair of sheets

With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets; WHETHER HAMILTON'S BAWN SHOULD BE TURNED

But, madam, I beg you contrive and invent, INTO A BARRACK OR A MALT-HOUSE. 1729.

And worry him out, till he gives his consent.

Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, Tous spoke to my lady the knight full of care :

An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink : " Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. This Hamilton's bawnt, whilst it sticks on my hand, I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain.

For if a new crotchet comes into my brain,
I lose by the house what I get by the land;
But how to dispose of it to the best bidder,

I fancy already a barrack contriv'd
For a barrack for malt-house, we now must consider. Of this, to be sure, Sir Arthur has warning,

At Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arriv’d; “ First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house,

And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. Here I have computed the profit will fall to us;

Now see, when they meet, how their honours behave:

• Noble captain, your servant'-'Sir Arthur, your Sir Arthur Acheson, at whose seat this was

slave; written.

+ A large old house, two miles from Sir Arthur's § A cant word in Ireland for a poor country clerseat.

gyman. The army in Ireland is lodged in strong build || My lady's waiting-woman. F. ings, over the whole kingdom, called barracks. F. Two of Sir Arthur's managers. N.

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