And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter,
He barks as fast as he can utter.

He prates in spite of all impediment,

While none believes that what he said he meant, Puts in his finger and his thumb

To grope for words, and out they come.

He calls you rogue; there's nothing in it,

He fawns upon you in a minute:

"Begs leave to rail, but, d-n his blood!
He only meant it for your good:
His friendship was exactly timed,
He shot before your foes were primed:
By this contrivance, Mr. Dean,

By G-d! I'll bring you off as clean-"
Then let him use you e'er so rough,
"'Twas all for love," and that's enough.
But, though he sputter through a session,
It never makes the least impression:
Whate'er he speaks for madness goes,
With no effect on friends or foes.

T. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack
Can set the mastiff on your back.
I own his madness is a jest,

If that were all. But he's possess'd
Incarnate with a thousand imps,

To work whose ends his madness pimps;
Who o'er each string and wire preside,
Fill every pipe, each motion guide;
Directing every vice we find

In Scripture to the devil assign'd;
Sent from the dark infernal region,
In him they lodge, and make him legion.
Of brethren he's a false accuser;
A slanderer, traitor, and seducer;
A fawning, base, trepanning liar;
The marks peculiar of his sire.
Or, grant him but a drone at best;
A drone can raise a hornet's nest.
The dean had felt their stings before,
And must their malice ne'er give o'er?
Still swarm and buzz about his nose?
But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes.
A patriot is a dangerous post,
When wanted by his country most;
Perversely comes in evil times,

Where virtues are imputed crimes.

His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant;
A traitor to the vices regnant.

What spirit, since the world began,
Could always bear to strive with man?
Which God pronounced he never would,

TRAULUS, of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mongrel seed;
By the dam from lordlings sprung,
By the sire exhaled from dung:
Think on every vice in both,

Look on him, and see their growth.
View him on the mother's side,

Fill'd with falsehood, spleen, and pride;
Positive and overbearing,

Changing still, and still adhering;

Spiteful, peevish, rude, untoward,
Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward;
Reputation ever tearing,

Ever dearest friendship swearing;
Judgment weak, and passion strong,
Always various, always wrong;
Provocation never waits,

Where he loves, or where he hates;
Talks whate'er comes in his head;
Wishes it were all unsaid.

Let me now the vices trace,
From the father's scoundrel race.
Who could give the looby such airs?
Were they masons, were they butchers?
Herald, lend the Muse an answer
From his atavus and grandsire:
This was dexterous at his trowel,
That was bred to kill a cow well:
Hence the greasy clumsy mien
In his dress and figure seen;
Hence the mean and sordid soul,
Like his body, rank and foul;
Hence that wild suspicious peep,
Like a rogue that steals a sheep;
Hence he learn'd the butcher's guile,
How to cut your throat and smile;
Like a butcher, doom'd for life
In his mouth to wear his knife:
Hence he draws his daily food
From his tenants' vital blood.

Lastly, let his gifts be tried,
Borrow'd from the mason's side:
Some perhaps may think him able
In the state to build a Babel,
Could we place him in a station
To destroy the old foundation.

True indeed I should be gladder
Could he learn to mount a ladder:
May he at his latter end

Mount alive and dead descend!
In him tell me which prevail,
Female vices most, or male?
What produced him, can you tell?
Human race, or imps of hell?

A FABLE OF THE LION AND OTHER BEASTS.

ONE time a mighty plague did pester
All beasts domestic and sylvester.
The doctors all in concert join'd,
To see if they the cause could find;
And tried a world of remedies,
But none could conquer the disease.
The Lion in this consternation
Sends out his royal proclamation,
To all his loving subjects greeting,
Appointing them a solemn meeting:
And when they're gather'd round his den,
He spoke. My lords and gentlemen,
I hope you're met full of the sense
Of this devouring pestilence;
For sure such heavy punishment
On common crimes is rarely sent;
It must be some important cause,
Some great infraction of the laws.
Then let us search our consciences,
And every one his faults confess:
Let's judge from biggest to the least,
That he that is the foulest beast
May for a sacrifice be given
To stop the wrath of angry Heaven.
And since no one is free from sin,
I with myself will first begin.

I have done many a thing that's ill

From a propensity to kill,

Slain many an ox, and, what is worse,

Have murder'd many a gallant horse;

Robb'd woods and fens, and, like a glutton

Devour'd whole flocks of lamb and mutton.

Nay, sometimes, for I dare not lie,

The shepherd went for company.
He had gone on, but chancellor Fox
Stands up-
What signifies an ox?

What signifies a horse? Such things
Are honor'd when made sport for kings.
Then for the sheep, those foolish cattle,

And being tolerable meat,

They're fit for nothing but to eat.
The shepherd too, young enemy,
Deserves no better destiny.

Sir, sir, your conscience is too nice;
Hunting's a princely exercise:

And those, being all your subjects born,
Just when you please are to be torn.
And, if sir, this will not content ye,
We'll vote it NEMINE CONTRADICENTE.

Thus after him they all confess

They had been rogues, some more some less;
And yet by little slight excuses

They all get clear of great abuses.

The Bear, the Tiger, beasts of flight,

And all that could but scratch and bite,

Nay e'en the Cat, of wicked nature,

That kills in sport her fellow-creature,
Went scot-free; but his gravity,
An Ass of stupid memory,
Confess'd as he went to a fair,

His back half broke with wooden-ware,

Chancing unluckily to pass

By a churchyard full of good grass,
Finding they'd open left the gate,

I ventured in, stoop'd down and eat [ate].
Hold, says judge Wolf, such are the crimes
Have brought upon us these sad times,
'Twas sacrilege, and this vile Ass
Shall die for eating holy grass.

ON THE IRISII BISHOPS. 1731.

OLD Latimer preaching did fairly describe
A bishop who ruled all the rest of his tribe;
And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell?
Why truly 'tis Satan, archbishop of hell.
And he was a primate, and he wore a mitre,
Surrounded with jewels of sulphur and nitre.
How nearly this bishop our bishops resembles!
But he has the odds, who believes and who trembles.
Could you see his grim grace, for a pound to a penny,
You'd swear it must be the baboon of Kilkenny:'
Poor Satan will think the comparison odious,
I wish I could find him out one more commodious;
But, this I am sure, the most reverend old dragon
Has got on the bench many bishops suffragan;
And all men believe he resides there incog.,
To give them by turns an invisible jog.

Our bishops, puff'd up with wealth and with pride,
To hell on the backs of the clergy would ride.
They mounted and labor'd with whip and with spur,
In vain for the devil a parson would stir.

So the commons unhorsed them; and this was their doom,
On their crosiers to ride like a witch on a broom.

Though they gallop'd so fast, on the road you may find ’em,
And have left us but three out of twenty behind 'em.
Lord Bolton's good grace, lord Carr, and lord Howard,'
In spite of the devil would still be untoward:
They came of good kindred, and could not endure
Their former companions should beg at their door.
When Christ was betray'd to Pilate the prætor,
Of a dozen apostles but one proved a traitor:
One traitor alone, and faithful eleven;

But we can afford you six traitors in seven.

What a clutter with clippings, dividings, and cleavings!
And the clergy, forsooth, must take up with their leavings;
If making divisions was all their intent,

They've done it, we thank them, but not as they meant;
And so may such bishops for ever divide,

That no honest heathen would be on their side.
How should we rejoice, if, like Judas the first,
Those splitters of parsons in sunder should burst!
Now hear an allusion:- A mitre, you know,
Is divided above, but united below.

If this you consider our emblem is right;
The bishops divide, but the clergy unite.
Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread
That the mitre would never stick fast on their head:
And yet they have learn'd the chief art of a sovereign,
As Machiavel taught them, "divide and ye govern.'
But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said
That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head;
I'll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see't),
If your stockings were off, you could show cloven feet.
But hold, cry the bishops, and give us fair play;
Before you condemn us, hear what we can say.
What truer affections could ever be shown
Than saving your souls by damning our own?
And have we not practised all methods to gain you;
With the tithe of the tithe of the tithe to maintain you;
Provided a fund for building your spitals?
You are only to live four years without victuals,
Content, my good lords; but let us change hands;
First take you our tithes, and give us your lands.
So God bless the church and three of our mitres ;
And God bless the commons, for biting the biters!

Dr. Theophilus Bolton was archbishop of Cashell from 1729 to 1744; Dr. Chas. rr, bishop of Killaloe from 1716 to 1739; and Dr. Robert Howard, bishop of