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 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;

[made

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,
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 "Why 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.

Or you may say—" My wife intends,

Though I should be exceeding proud,

348 DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S.

This winter to invite some friends,
And, sir, I know you hate a crowd.

Or, "Mr. 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.”

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!

1 The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq. in the county of Tyrone. -F.

F.

2 The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names.

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.

ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN,

AT MARKET-HILL.1

1727.

AT Market-Hill, as well appears
By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.

1 A village near the seat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the Dean sometimes made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much 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, nor would see Swift for some time after. By way of making his peace, the Dean wrote this poem; which had the desired effect.-Anderson.

Hither came every village maid,

And on the boughs her garland hung;
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure from satyrs sat and sung.

Sir Archibald,1 that valorous knight,
The lord of all the fruitful plain,
Would come and listen with delight;
For he was fond of rural strain.

(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name
Shall stand for ages on record,
By Scottish bards of highest fame,
Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.2)

But time with iron teeth, I ween,

Has canker'd all its branches round;

No fruit or blossom to be seen,

Its head reclining toward the ground.

This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,
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;

1 Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of State for Scotland.-F.

2 Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander Earl of Stirling, who were both friends of Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry.-F.