Whoe'er will raise such lies as these
Deserves a good cudgelling:

Who falsely boasts of belles and toasts
At dirty Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone to all but one,
Which is, our trees are felling;
As proper quite as those you write,
To force in Ballyspellin.

PARODY

ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY.

WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF.

THE very reverend dean Smedley, Of dullness, pride, conceit, a medley,

* INSCRIPTION,

BY DEAN SMEDLEY. 1729.

*

Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY,
Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus,
Politioribus excultus literis ;

Parce pius, impius minime;
Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor;
Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam,
Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus,

Auctor hujus sententiæ, PATRES SUNT VETULE.
Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atquæ infamiam;
Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus,
Mente sana, sano corpore, volens, lætusque,
Lustris plus quam xi numeratis,

Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque,

Was equally allow'd to shine
As poet, scholar, and divine;
With godliness could well dispense,
Would be a rake, but wanted sense;
Would strictly after Truth inquire,
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
For Liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his shoulder.
To half the world a standing jest,
A perfect nuisance to the rest;

From many (and we may believe him)
Had the best wishes they could give him.
To all mankind a constant friend,

Provided they had cash to lend.

One thing he did before he went hence,
He left us a laconic sentence,

By cutting of his phrase, and trimming,
To

prove that bishops were old women. Poor Envy durst not show her phiz, She was so terrified at his.

He waded, without any shame,

Through thick and thin to get a name,
Tried every sharping trick for bread,
And after all he seldom sped.

When Fortune favour'd, he was nice;
He never once would cog the dice :
But, if she turn'd against his play,
He knew to stop à quatre trois.

Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales prædicandum,
Greva, idibus Februarii, navem ascendens,

Arcemque Sancti petens Georgii, vernale per æquinoxium,
Anno Æræ Christianæ MDCCXXVIII,

Transfretavit,

Fata vocant-revocentque precamur.

Now sound in mind, and sound in corpus,
(Says he) though swell'd like any porpoise,
He bies from hence at forty-four,
(But by his leave he sinks a score)
To the East Indies, there to cheat,
Till he can purchase an estate :
Where, after he has fill'd his chest,
He'll mount his tub, and preach his best,
And plainly prove, by dint of text,
This world is his, and theirs the next,
Lest that the reader should not know
The bank where last he set his toe,
'Twas Greenwich. There he took a ship,
And gave his creditors the slip,
But lest chronology should vary,
Upon the ides of February,

In seventeen hundred eight and twenty,
To Fort St. George a peddlar went he.
Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent,
RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT !

PAULUS; AN EPIGRAM.

BY MR. LINDSAY.*

Dublin, Sept. 7, 1728.

"A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, "In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats;

* A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent pleader t the bar in Dublin, and afterward advanced to be one of the justi ces of the common pleas. H.

"While smiling Nature, in her best attire, "Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. "Can he, who knows that real good should please, "Barter for gold his liberty and ease ?"Thus Paulus preach'd:-When, entering at the door, Upon his board the client pours the ore : He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws.

THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT.

LINDSAY mistakes the matter quite,
And honest Paulus judges right.
Then why these quarrels to the sun,
Without whose aid you're all undone ?
Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat?
Did Paulus e'er the sun forget;

The influence of whose golden beams
Soon licks up all unsavoury steams?
The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd:
It has; but then it greas'd his fist.
True lawyers, for the wisest ends,
Have always been Apollo's friends.
Not for his superficial powers
Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers;
Not for inspiring poets' brains
With penny less and starveling strains;
Not for his boasted healing art;
Not for his skill to shoot the dart;
Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles;
Nor for his prophecies in riddles :

But for a more substantial cause-
Apollo's patron of the laws;
Whom Paulus ever must adore
As parent of the golden ore,
By Phoebus, an incestuous birth
Begot upon his grandam Earth;
By Phoebus first produc'd to light:

By Vulcan form'd so round and bright :
Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice,
By clients to her priests and trustees.
Nor, when we see Astræa stand
With even balance in her hand,
Must we suppose she has in view,
How to give every man his due;
Her scales you see her only hold,
To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold.
Now, should I own your case was grievous,
Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us?
'Tis very true, and none denies,

At least, that such complaints are wise :
'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more,
To cry, like statesmen, Quanta patimur !
But, since the truth must needs be stretched,
To prove that lawyers are so wretched;
This paradox I'll undertake,

For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake;
By topics, which, though I abomine 'em,
May serve as argument ad hominem :
Yet I disdain to offer those
Made use of by detracting foes,
I own, the curses of mankind

Sit light upon a lawyer's mind:
The clamours of ten thousand tongues
Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs :