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.

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.+)

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.

The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd,
In prudence and compassion, sent
(For none could tell whose turn was next)
Sad omens of the dire event.

The magpie, lighting on the stock,
Stood chattering with incessant din;
And with her beak gave many a knock,
To rouze and warn the nymph within.

The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,
The ruin of her ancient seat;

And fled in haste, with all her brood,
To seek a more secure retreat.

Last trolled forth the gentle swine,
To ease her itch against the stump,
And dismally was heard to whine,

All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump.

The nymph who dwells in every tree,
(If all be true that poets chant)
Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree,
Must die with her expiring plant.

Thus, when the gentle Spina found
The thorn committed to her care,
Receiv'd its last and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish'd into air.

But from the root a dismal groan

First issuing struck the murderer's ears;

And, in a shrill revengeful tone,

This prophecy he trembling hears;

4

"Thou chief contriver of my fall,

Relentless Dean, to mischief born; My kindred oft thine hide shall gall, Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.

And thy confederate dame, who brags
That she condemn'd me to the fire,
Shall rend her petticoats to rags,

And wound her legs with every brier.

Nor thou, Lord Arthur,* shalt escape;
To thee I often call'd in vain,
Against that assassin in crape;

Yet thou could'st tamely see me slain;

Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,
Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse;

Since

you

could see me treated so

(An old retainer to your house :)

May that fell Dean, by whose command
Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,

Not leave a thistle on thy land;
Then who will own thee for a Scot?

Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
Through all my empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges, join in leagues,
Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hallow'd timber down;

*Sir Arthur Acheson. F.

When thou, suspended high in air,
Diest on a more ignoble tree,

(For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,)
Then, bloody caitif! think on me.”

ЕРІТАРН,

IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

HERE lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly serv'd to make folks laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.

Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?

Dickies enough are still behind,

To laugh at by and by.

Buried June 18, 1728, aged 63.

MY LADY'S* LAMENTATION AND COM PLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN.

JULY 23, 1728.

SURE never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy, So teas'd day and night By a Dean and a Knight.

To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe
With Skinny and Snipe :

Lady Acheson. F.