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So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a swearing,
Then my dame Wadgar' came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing. "Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have had ?"
"Nay," says she, "my lord Colway's folks are all very sad;
For my lord Dromeday comes a Tuesday without fail."
Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail."
Says Cary,' says he, "I have been a servant this five-and-twenty years come spring,
And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." "Yes," says the steward, "I remember when I was at my lord Shrewsbury's,
Such a thing as this happen'd just about the time of gooseberries.'
But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house.
'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole in my wages :
Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages.
Now Mrs. Dukes you know, and everybody understands,
That, though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."
The devil take me!" said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!"
So she roar'd like a bedlam, as though I had call'd her all to naught.
I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.
You are no text for my handling; so take that from me:
I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have you to know."
Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so;
You know I honor the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife;
I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life."
With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.
Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do?
I have lost my money and shall lose my true love too!"
'The earl of Berkeley's valet.
The old deaf housekeeper.
The earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed the two earls then lord justices of Ireland.
Ferris; termed in his journal a scoundrel dog.
Clerk of the kitchen.
A usual saying of hers.
Then my lord call'd me: Harry," said my lord, "don't cry;
"Oh! but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to?"
Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.
A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC.
Written at the castle of Dublin, 1699.
My lord,2 to find out who must deal,
But the first knave does seldom fail
To find the doctor out.
But then his honor cried, Gadzooks!
But h' thinks upon Jack How.3
If I had but a pair of aces,
"With these is parson Swift,
Not knowing how to spend his time,
Does make a wretched shift,
To deafen them with puns and rhyme."
A cant word of lord and lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.
To the tune of the Cutpurse.' Written in August, 1702.
ONCE on a time, as old stories rehearse,
A friar would need show his talent in Latin; But was sorely put to't in the midst of a verse, Because he could find no word to come pat in; Then all in the place
He left a void space,
And so went to bed in a desperate case:
CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't;
This put me the friar into an amazement;
For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite;
That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement;
If it were friend or foe,
Or whether it came from above or below;
Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf,
For he ne'er could have filled it so well of himself.
Even so master Doctor had puzzled his brains
Pay thanks for the gift,
For you freely must own you were at a dead lift;
The following lines probably had some share in determining the earl to get rid of so untractable a dependent, by gratifying him with a living.
WHEN wise lord Berkeley first came here,
Ere a week past committing blunders.
Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit hand, as if a third person had done it.-SWIFT.
Till on a day cut out by fate,
When folks came thick to make their court, Out slipp'd a mystery of state,
To give the town and country sport.
Asks of his neighbor, who is that?
The courtiers kept their distance due,
Whispering in junto most profound,
For sure (thought he) it can't be less.
Disguised in two old threadbare coats, Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy
How markets went for hay and oats. With that he draws two handfuls out, The one was oats, the other hay Puts this to's excellency's snout,
And begs he would the other weigh. My lord seems pleased, but still directs By all means to bring down the rates; Then, with a congee circumflex,
Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. Our listener stood awhile confused,
But gathering spirits, wisely ran for❜t, Enraged to see the world abused,
By two such whispering kings of Brentford.
"That my lord Berkeley stinks when he is in love."
The ladies vow and swear they'll try
Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat,
Whether all passions, when in ferment,
But still, though fix'd among the stars,
Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech,
And now, the ladies all are bent
The ladies vanish in the smother,