« ForrigeFortsett »
A great Bottle of Wine, long buried, being that
Day dug up.
Written in the Year 1722.
annual Verse to pay,
By Duty bound, on Stella's Day;
Furnish'd with Paper, Pens, and Ink,
I gravely fat me down to think:
I bit my Nails, and scratch'd my Head,
But found my Wit, and Fancy fled:
Or, if with more than usual Pain,
A Thought came slowly from my Brain,
It cost me, Lord knows, how much Time
To shape it into Sense and Rhyme :
And, what was yet a greater Curse,
Long-thinking made my Fancy worse.
FORSAKEN by th' inspiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo's Shrine ;
I told him what the World would say
If Stella were unsung To-day;
How I should hide my Head for Shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer ;
How Sheridan the Rogue would sneer:
And swear it does not always follow,
That Semel'n anno ridet Apollo,
I have affur’d them twenty Times,
That Phæbus help'd me in my Rhymes ;
Phæbus infpir'd me from above,
And He and I were Hand and Glove;
But, finding me so dull and dry since,
They'll call it all poetick Licence:
And, when I brag of Aid Divine,
Think * Eufden's Right as good as mine.
Nor, do I ask for Stella's Sake; 'Tis my own Credit lies at Stake. And Stella will be sung, while I Can only be a Stander-by,
APOLLO, having thought a little, Return'd this Answer to a Tittle.
THOUGH you should live like old Methusalem, I furnish Hints, and you should use all 'em; You yearly sing as she grows You'd leave her Virtues half untold; But, to say Truth, such Dulness reigns Through the whole Set of Irish Deans ;
I'm daily stunn'd with such a Medley,
Dean W-d, Dean D, and Dean Smedley,
That, let what Dean foever come,
My Orders are, I'm not at Home ;
And, if your Voice had not been loud,
You must have pass'd among the Crowd.
But now, your Danger to prevent,
You must apply to * Mrs. Brent.
For she, as Priestess, knows the Rites,
Wherein the God of Earth delights,
First, nine Ways looking, let her stand
With an old Poker in her Hand;
Let her describe a Circle round
In + Saunder's Cellar on the Ground :
A Spade let prudent | Arcby hold,
And with Discretion dig the Mould :
Let Stella look with watchful Eye,
$ Rebecca, ** Ford, and Grattans by.
BEHOLD the Bottle, where it lies With Neck elated tow'rds the Skies! The God of Winds and God of Fire, Did to its wondrous Birth confpire ;
And Bacchus, for the Poet's Use,
Pourd in a strong inspiring Juice :
See! as you raise it from its Tomb,
It drags behind a spacious Womb,
And in that spacious Womb contains
A sovoreign Med'cine for the Brains.
You'll find it foon, if Fate consents ; If not, a Thousand Mrs. Brents, Ten Thousand Archys arm’d with Spades, May dig in vain to Pluto's Shades ;
From thence a plenteous Draught infuse, And boldly then invoke the Muse: (But first let * Robert on his Knees, With Caution drain it from the Lees) The Muse will at your Call appear, With Stella's Praise to crown the Year:
A Receipt to restore STELLA's
Written in the Year 1724-5.
HE Scottish Hinds too poor to house
In frosty Nights their starving Cows,
While not a Blade of Grass, or Hay,
Appears from Michaelmas to May;
Must let their Cattle range in vain
For Food, along the barren Plain
Meager and lank with fasting grown,
And nothing left but Skin and Bone;
Expos’d to Want, and Wind, and Weather,
They just keep Life and Soul together,
'Till Summer Show'rs and Ev'ning Dew,
Again the verdant Glebe renew;
And, as the Vegetables rise,
The familh'd Cow her Want supplies ;
Without an Ounce of last Year's Flesh,
Whate'er she gains is young and fresh ;
Grows plump and round, and full of Mettle,
As rising from Medea's Kettle;
With Youth and Beauty to enchant
Europa's counterfeit Gallant.