Dick with zealous noes and ayes
Could roar as loud as Stentor,
In the house 'tis all he
As when, from rooting in a bin,
All powder'd o'er from tail to chin,
A lively maggot sallies out,
You know him by his hazel snout:
So when the grandson of his grandsire
Forth issuing wriggling, Dick Drawcansir,
With powder'd rump and back and side,
You cannot blanch his tawny hide ;
For 'tis beyond the power of meal
The gipsy visage to conceal :
For, as he shakes his wainscot chops,
Down every mealy atom drops,
And leaves the tartar phyz in show,
Like a fresh t-d just dropt on snow.
CLAD ALL IN BROWN. TO DICK.
FOULEST brute that stinks below,
Why in this brown dost thou appear? For would'st thou make a fouler show, Thou must go naked all the year. Fresh from the mud a wallowing sow Would then be not so brown as thor.
"Tis not the coat that looks so dun,
His hide emits a foulness out;
Not one jot better looks the sun
Seen from behind a dirty clout:
So t-ds within a glass enclose,
The glass will seem as brown as those.
Thou now one heap of foulness art,
All outward and within is foul;
Condensed filth in every part,
Thy body's clothed like thy soul;
Thy soul, which through thy hide of buff
Scarce glimmers like a dying snuff.
Old carted bawds such garments wear,
When pelted all with dirt they shine;
Such their exalted bodies are,
As shrivell'd and as black as thine.
If thou wert in a cart, I fear
Thou would'st be pelted worse than they're.
Yet, when we see thee thus array'd,
The neighbours think it is but just,
That thou should'st take an honest trade,
And weekly carry out the dust.
Of cleanly houses who will doubt,
When Dick cries, "Dust to carry out ?"
DULL uniformity in fools,
I hate, who gape and sneer by rules.
You, Mullinix, and slobbering C-,
Who every day and hour the same are;
That vulgar talent I despise
Of pissing in the rabble's eyes.
And when I listen to the noise
Of idiots roaring to the boys;
To better judgment still submitting,
I own I see but little wit in;
Such pastimes, when our taste is nice,
Cau please at most but once or twice.
But then consider Dick, you'll find
His genius of superior kind:
He never muddles in the dirt,
Nor scours the streets without a shirt;
Though Dick, I dare presume to say,
Could do such feats as well as they.
Dick I could venture every where,
Let the boys pelt him if they dare,
He'd have them try'd at the assizes
For priests and jesuits in disguises;
Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender,
And listing troops for the pretender.
But Dick can ft, and dance, and frisk, No other monkey half so brisk; Now has the speaker by the ears, Next moment in the house of peers; Now scolding at my lady Eustace, Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.
Presto! be gone! with t'other hop
He's powdering in a barber's shop;
Now at the antichamber thrusting
His nose to get the circle just in,
And d-ns his blood, that in the rear
He sees one single tory there :
Then, wo be to my lord lieutenant,
Again he'll tell him, and again on't:
ON GENERAL GORGES,* AND LADY MEATH.†
UNDER this stone lies Dick and Dolly.
Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy;
For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.
Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear:
But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a year;
A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear.
Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd;
Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost:
The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.
Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried :
To live without both full three days he tried;
But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.
* Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath. F.
Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married and died April 10, 1728. Her husband surs
to the general in 1716
vived her but two days.
Dick left a pattern few will copy after;
Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water;
For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter.
Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late;
The son laughs, that got the hard gotten estate:
And Cuffe* grins, for getting the Alicant plate.
Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day,
Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday,
And here rest- -sic transit gloria mundi!
VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT.
My latest tribute here I send,
With this let your collection end:
Thus I consign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame:
And if the whole may pass for true,
Contented rest, you have your due.
Give future time the satisfaction,
To leave one handle for detraction
GRAVE Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass; That you, who so lately were writing of Drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers ?
* John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq. married the general's eldest daugh ter. F.
|