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OC tumulata jacet proles Lenæa sepulchro,

Immortale genus, nec peritura jacet ; Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo;

Bis natuin referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.


A great Bottle of Wine, long buried, being that

Day dug up. 1722-3.
ESOLV'D my annual verse to pay,

By duty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely sat me down to think :

bit my nails, and scratch'd my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled :
Or, if with more than usual pain,
A thought came Nowly from
It cost me lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curse,
Long thinking made my fancy worse.

Forsaken by th’ inspiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo's shrine :
I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unsung to-day :


my brain,

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How I should hide my head for frame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sheridan the rogue would ineer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That semel'n 'anno ridet Apollo.
I have assurd them twenty times,
That Phæbus help’ú me in my rhymes ;
Phæbus inspir’d me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me so dull and dry since,
They ’ll call it all poetic licence ;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusuen's right as good as milie.

Nor do I ask for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake :
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander-by.

Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this answer to a tittle.

Though you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hints, and you shall use all 'em,
You yearly fing as she grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to say truth, fuch dulness reigns,
Through the whole set of Irish deans,
I’m daily stunn'd with such a inedley,
Dean W, Dean DM, and Dean Smedley,
That, let what Dean foever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;


And, if your voice had not been loud, .
You must have pass'd among the croud..

But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent ;
For The, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her describe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar on the ground:.
A spade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould
Let Stella look with watchful

eye, Rebecca, Ford, and 'Grattans by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated towards the skies'
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire ;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Pour'd in a strong inspiring juice,
See ! as you raise it from its tomb, .
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A sovereign medicine for the brains.

You 'll find it foon, if fate consents:
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brenis,
Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

From thence a plenteous draught infufe,
And boldly then invoke the Muls

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(But first let Robert, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees):
The Muse will at your call appear,
With Stella's 'praise to crown the year.


On the Death of

"IS Grace ! impossible ! what dead'!

Of old age too, and in his bed?
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all !
Well, since he's gone, no matter how,
"The last loud-trump must wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the news-papers we 're told?
Threelcore, I think, is pretty high ;
'Twas time in conscience he should die !
This world he cumber'd long enough ;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that's the son, fome folks think,
He left behind fo great a fake
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widow's fighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.


But what of that? his friends may fay,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he dy’d.

Come hither, all ye empty things !
Ye bubbles rais’d by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tiđe of itate;
Come hither, and behold your fare.
Let Pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing 's a Dake;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he fprung.




“ Non domu's aut fundus"
It was, my lord, the dextrous shift

Of t’other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now St. Patrick's saucy dean,
With silver 'verge and furplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace,
In loofer rhyme to beg a place.
A place be got, yclept a fall,
And eke a thousand pounds withal;
And, were he a less wifey writer,
He might as well have got a mitre.

Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble Jays, my thanks so btfor,


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