Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,
Where never yet a codling ripen'd,,
Hither the frantic goddess draws
Three suff'rers in a ruin'd cause:
By faction banis'd, here unite
A Dean*, a Spaniard † and a knight;
Unite, but on conditions cruel,
The Dean and Spaniard find it too well:
Condemn'd to live in service hard,
On either side his Honour's guard :
The Dean, to guard his Honour's back,
Must build a castle at Drumlack ||;
The Spaniard, sore against his will,
Must raise a fort at Market-hill;
And thus the pair of humble gentry
At north and south are posted centry,
While in his lordly castle fixt
The Knight triumphant reigns betwixt,
And what the wretches most resent,
To be his slaves must pay him rent;
Attend him daily as their chief,
Decant his wine, and carve his beef.
Oh, Fortune! 'tis a scandal for thee
To smile on those who are least worthy :
Col. Harry Leslie, who served and lived long in Spain.
Sir Arthur Acheson.
The Irish name of a farm the Dean took, and was to build on, but changed his mind. He called it Drapier's Hill. Vide the poem so called.
Weigh but the merits of the three,
His slaves have ten times more than he.
Proud Baronet of Nova Scotia !
The Dean and Spaniard must reproach ye:
Of their two fames the world enough rings;
Where are thy services and suff'rings?
What if for nothing once you kist,
Against the grain, a monarch's fist?
What if among the courtly tribe
You lost a plce and sav’d a bribe ?
And then in surly mood came here
To fifteen hundred pounds a-year,
And fierce against the Whigs harangu'd?
You never ventur'd to be hang'd.
How dare you treat your betters thus ?
Are you to be compar'd with us?
Come, Spaniard ! let us from our farms
Call forth our cottagers to arms;
Our forces let us both unite,
Attack the foe at left and right.
From Market-Hill's exalted head,
Full northward let your troops be led ;
While I from Drapier's Mount descend,
And to the south my squadrons bend.
New-river Walk, with friendly shade,
Shall keep my host in ambuscade,
While you, from where the bason stands,
Shall scale the rampart with your bands,
Nor need we doubt the fort to win;
I hold intelligence within.
True, Lady Anne no danger fears,
Brave as the Upton fan she wears;
Then, lest upon our first attack
Her valiant arm should force us back,
And we of all our hopes depriv'd,
I have a stratagem contriv'd:
By these embroider'd high-heel'd shoes
She shall be caught, as in a noose;
So well contriv'd her toes to pinch,
She'll not have pow'r to stir an inch:
These gaudy shoes must Hannah * place
Direct before her Lady's face;
The shoes put on, our faithful portress
Admits us in to storm the fortress,
While tortur'd Madam bound remains,
Like Montezume in golden chains;
Or like a cat with walnuts shod,
Stumbling at ev'ry step she trod.
Sly hunters thus, in Borneo's isle,
To catch a monkey by a wile
The mimic animal amuse;
They place before him gloves and shoes,
Which, when the brute puts awkward on,
All his agility is gone:
In vain to frisk or climb he tries;
The huntsmen seize the grinning prize.
But let us on our first assault
Secure the larder and the vault.
The valiant Dennis * you must fix on,
And I'll engage with Peggy Dixon ti
Then if we once can seize the key,
And chest that keeps my Lady's tea,
They must surrender at discretion:
And soon as we have gain'd possession
We'll act as other conqu❜rors do,
Divide the realm between us two.
Then (let me see) we'll make the Knight
Our clerk, for he can read and write;
But must not think, I tell him that,
Like Lorimer, to wear his hat:
Yet, when we dine without a friend,
We'll place him at the lower end.
Madam, whose skill does all in dress lie,
May serve to wait on Mrs. Leslie ;
But lest it might not be so proper
That her own maid should overtop her,
To mortify the creature more,
We'll take her heels five inches low'r.
For Hannah, when we have no need of her, · · 105 'Twill be our int'rest to get rid of her;
And when we execute our plot,
'Tis best to hang her on the spot; As all your politicians wise
Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise.
*The butler.
The house-keeper.
The agent.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN.
Written in the year 1730.
SAY, Robin, what can Traulus mean
By bell'wing thus against the Dean?
Why does he call him paltry Scribbler,
Papist, and Jacobite, and Libeller?
Yet cannot prove a single fact.
ROBIN. Forgive him, Tom, his head is crackt.
TOM. What mischief can the Dean have done him, That Traulus calls for vengeance on him?
Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it,
In vain against the people's fav'rite?
Revile that nation-saving paper,
Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier?
ROBIN. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain; Party and spleen have turn'd his brain.
TOM. Such friendship never man profess'd, 15 The Dean was never so caress'd;
For Traulus long his rancour nurst,
Till, God knows why, at last it burst.
That clumsy outside of a porter,
How could it thus conceal a courtier ?
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