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 *Skynnebonia, Snipe, and Lean?
O! that I could but once be rid
Of this insulting tyrant Dean!
ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL,
FRAIL glass thou bear'st that name as well as I;
Though none can tell, which of us first shall die.
ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT.
ME only chance can kill; thou, frailer creature, May'st die, like me, by chance; but must by nature.
ON CUTTING DOWN THE OLD THORN
AT Market-Hill, as well appears,
By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.
The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. F.
Hither came every village maid,
And on the boughs her garland hung;
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure from satyrs sate and sung.
Sir Archibald,* 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.t)
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;
And mother Tellus trembled so,
She scarce recover'd in a week.
* Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland. F. + Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander Earl of Stirling, who were both friends to Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry. F.
Has every repartee in store
She spoke ten thousand times before;
Can ready compliments supply
On all occasions, cut and dry;
Such hatred to a parson's gown,
The sight will put her in a swoon;
For conversation well endued,
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
Nor make a scruple to expose
Your bandy leg, or crooked nose;
Can at her morning tea run o'er
The scandal of the day before;
Improving hourly in her skill,
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille,
In choosing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs dispute,
What linen best the silk will suit,
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,
Can finely counterfeit a fright;
So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
Can dext'rously her husband tease,
By taking fits whene'er she please;
By frequent practice learns the trick
At proper seasons to be sick;
Thinks nothing gives one air so pretty,
At once creating love and pity;
If Molly happens to be careless,
And but neglects to warm her hairlace,
She gets a cold as sure as death,
And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modest women can
Be so robustious, like a man.
In party, furious to her power;
A bitter whig, or tory sour;
Her arguments directly tend
Against the side she would defend ;
Will prove herself a tory plain,
From principles the whigs maintain;
And, to defend the whiggish cause,
Her topics from the tories draws.
yes ! if any man can find
More virtues in a woman's mind,
Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;*
She'll pay the charges to a farthing s
Take notice, she has my commission
To add them in the next edition;
They may outsell a better thing:
So, halloo, boys; God save the king!
GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727.
As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling,
Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling,
He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack,
And promis'd to pay for it when he came back,
His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white ;
His cap had a new cherry riband to tye't.
* Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer. F.
The maids to the doors and the balconies ran,
And said, "Lack-a-day! he's a proper young man !”
But, as from the windows the ladies he spi'd,
Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side;
And, when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry,
He swore from his cart," It was all a damn'd lye !"
The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee;
Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee:
Then said, I must speak to the people a little;
But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.*
My honest friend Wild+ (may he long hold his place)
He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace.
Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid,
Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade;
My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm,
And thus I go off without prayer-book or psalm ;
Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch,
Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.
WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE DUNCIAD. 1727.
POPE has the talent well to speak,
But not to reach the ear;
His loudest voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.
* A cant word for confessing at the gallows. F.
+ The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was
hanged for receiving stolen goods. F.
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