This is the little strutting pile,
You fee juft by the church-yard stile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock;
And thus the fteeple got a shock;
From whence the neighbouring farmer calls,
The steeple, Knock; the vicar, * Walls.
The vicar once a week creeps in,
Sits with his knees up to his chin;
Here conns his notes, and takes a whet,
Till the fmall ragged flock is met.
A traveller, who by did pass,
Obferv'd the roof behind the grass;
On tiptoe ftood, and rear'd his fnout,
And faw the parfon creeping out;
Was much furpriz'd to see a crow
Venture to build his neft fo low.
A fchool-boy ran unto 't, and thought,
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who loft his way by night,
Was forc'd for fafety to alight,
And, stepping o'er the fabric-roof,
His horfe had like to fpoil his hoof.
Warburton + took it in his noddle,
This building was defign'd a model
Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.
Then Mrs Johnson I gave her verdict,
And every one was pleas'd that heard it :
* Archdeacon Wall, a correfpondent of Swift's.
+ Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.
All that you make this ftir about
Is but a still which wants a fpout.
The reverend Dr. Raymond guefs'd
More probably than all the reft;
He faid, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.
The doctor's family came by,
And little mifs began to cry;
Give me that house in my own hand !!
Then madam bade the chariot stand,
Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child'
That thing, I mean, among the kale ;;
And here's to buy, a pot of ale.
The clerk faid to her, in a heat,
What! fell my master's country seat,
Where he comes every week from town
He would not fell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not fuch a pother;
In half an hour thou 'lt make another.
Says Nancy, I can make for miss:
A finer houfe ten times than this;
The dean will give me willow-fticks,
And Joe my apron-full of bricks.
*Minifter of Trim.
The waiting-woman.
SID HAMET THE MAGICIAN'S ROD.
HE rod was but a harmless wand,
While Mofes held it in his hand;
But, foon as e'er he laid it down,
'Twas a devouring ferpent grown.
Our great magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the prophet did :
His rod was honeft English wood,
That fenfeless in a corner flood,
Till, metamorphos'd by his grasp,
It grew an all-devouring afp;
Would hifs, and sting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere virtue of his fift;
But, when he laid it down, as quick
Refum'd the figure of a stick.
So to her midnight-feafts the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais'd by magick of her breech,
O'er fea and land conveys the witch;
But with the morning-dawn refumes,
The peaceful state of common brooms.
They tell us fomething ftrange and odd
About a certain magic rod *,
* The virgula divina, faid to be attracted by minerals.
That, bending down its top, divines
Whene'er the foil has golden mines;
Where there are none, it stands erect,
Scorning to fhew the least respect;
As ready was the wand of Sid
To bend where golden mines were hid;
In Scottish hills found precious ore*,
Where none e'er look'd for it before;
And by a gentle bow divin'd
How well a cully's purfe was lin'd;
To a forlorn and broken rake
Stood without motion, like a stake.
The rod of Hermes was renown'd
For charms above and under ground;
To fleep could mortal eye-lids fix,
And drive departed fouls to Styx.
That rod was just a type of Sid's,
Which o'er a British senate's lids
Could fcatter opium full as well,
And drive as many fouls to hell.
Sid's rod was flender, white, and tall,
Which oft he us'd to fish withal;
A plaice was fasten'd to the hook,
And many fcore of gudgeons took :
Yet ftill fo happy was his fate,
He caught his fib, and fav'd his bait.
Sid's brethren of the conjuring tribe
A circle with their rod defcribe,
* Suppofed to allude to the Union.
Which proves a magical redoubt
To keep mischievous spirits out.
Sid's rod was of a larger stride,
And made a circle thrice as wide,
Where spirits throng'd with hideous din,
And he ftood there to take them in:
But, when th' inchanted rod was broke,
They vanish'd in a ftinking smoke.
Achilles' fceptre was of wood,
Like Sid's, but nothing near fo good;
That down from ancestors divine
Transmitted to the hero's line;
Thence, through a long defcent of kings,
Came an HEIR-LOOM, as Homer fings.
Though this description looks fo big,
That fceptre was a fapless twig,
Which, from the fatal day, when first
It left the foreft where 'twas nurs'd,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,
Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blossom, bore.
Sid's fceptre, full of juice, did shoot
In golden boughs, and golden fruit;
And he, the dragon never fleeping,
Guarded each fair Hefperian pippin.
No hobby-horfe, with gorgeous top,
The dearest in Charles Mather's shop,
Or glittering tinfel of May-fair,
Could with this rod of Sid compare.
* An eminent toyman in Fleet-street.
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