Yet, when we see thee thus array'd,

The neighbours think it is but just,
That thou should't take an honest trade,
And weekly carry out the duft.

Of cleanly houfes who will doubt,
When Dick cries, "Duft to carry out ?"

DICK'S

VARIET Y.

DULL uniformity in fools

I hate, who gape and fneer by rules.
You, Mullinix, and flobbering C-
Who every day and hour the fame are;
That vulgar talent I despise

Of piffing in the rabble's eyes.
And when I liften to the noise
Of ideots roaring to the boys;
To better judgements ftill fubmitting,
I own I fee but little wit in ;

Such paftimes, when our tafte is nice,
Can please at most but once or twice.
But then confider Dick, you'll find
His genius of fuperior kind;
He never muddles in the dirt,
Nor fcowers the ftreets without a fhirt;
Though Dick, I dare prefume to fay,
Could do fuch feats as well as they.
Dick I could venture every where,

Let the boys pelt him if they dare;

He'd

He'd have them try'd at the affizes

For priests and jefuits in difguifes;

Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender,
And lifting troops for the pretender.

But Dick can fart, and dance, and frisk,
No other monkey half fo brisk;
Now has the fpeaker by the ears,
Next moment in the house of peers;
Now fcolding at my lady Euftace,
Or thrashing Baby in her new ftays.
Prefto! be gone! with t'other hop
He 's powdering in a barber's shop;
Now at the anti-chamber thrusting
His nofe to get the circle juft in,
And d-ns his blood, that in the rear
He fees one fingle Tory there :

Then, woe be to my lord lieutenant,
Again he 'll tell him, and again on ✨,

A N

EPITAPH

ON

GENERAL GORGES* AND LADY MEATH†.

UNDER this ftone lie Dicky and Dolly;

Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy;

For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.

* Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath. N. + Dorothy dowager of Edward earl of Meath. She was married to the General in 1716; and died Apr. 10, 1728: her husband survived but two days. N.

2

Dick

Dick loft in Doll a wife tender and dear: But Dick loft by Doll twelve hundred a year; A lofs that Dick thought no mortal could bear.

Dick figh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms croft ; Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he loft: The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd moft.

Thus loaded with grief, Dick figh'd and he cry'd; To live without both full three days he try'd :. But lik'd neither lofs, and fo quietly dy'd.

Dick left a pattern few will copy after:

Then, reader, pray fhed fome tears of falt-water;
For fo fad a tale is no fubject of laughter.

Meath fmiles for the jointure, though gotten fo late; The fon laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate;

And Cuffe grins, for getting the Alicant plate.

Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rife one day, Both folemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, And here reftfic tranfit gloria mundi !

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT.

MY lateft tribute here I fend,

With this let your collection end.

Thus I confign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame :
And, if the whole may pass for true,
Contented reft, you have your
due.

Give future times the fatisfaction,

To leave one handle for detraction.

John Cuffe of Defart, Efq; married the general's

eldeft daughter. N.

VOL. II.

DR. SWIFT'S COMPLAINT,

ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS.

WITH AN ANSWER.

DOCTOR.

EAF, giddy, helpless, left alone;

DEAF,

ANSWER.

Except the first, the fault 's your own.

DOCTOR.

To all my friends a burthen grown :

ANSWER.

Because to few you will be shewn.
Give them good wine, and meat to stuff,
You may have company enough.

Then write and read, 'twill do as well.

DOCTOR.

At thunder now no more I start,

Than at the rumbling of a cart.

ANSWER.

Think then of thunder when you fart.

DOCTOR.

And, what's incredible, alack!

No more I hear a woman's clack.

ANSWER.

A woman's clack, if I have fkill,
Sounds fomewhat like a throwster's mill;
But louder than a bell, or thunder;
That does, I own, increase my wonder.

DR.

DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF,

ON

SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

RAVE Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pafs,

GR

That you, who know mufic no more than an afs, That you, who fo lately were writing of Drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers ? To act fuch an opera once in a year,

So offenfive to every true Proteftant ear,

With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and finging,
Will fure the Pretender and Popery bring in.
No Proteftant Prelate, his Lordship or Grace,
Durst there shew his Right or Most Reverend face :
How would it pollute their crofiers and rochets
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crotchets !
[The reft is wanting. ]

PADDY'S

ON

CHARACTER

OF THE INTELLIGENCER*.

S

As a thorn-bufh, or oaken-bough,

Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow,

Above

* Dr. Sheridan was publisher of the "Intelligencer," a weekly paper, written principally by himself; but Dr.

H 2

Swift