And, with his dame, the ocean cross'd;
(All for Love, or the World well Lost!)
Repairs a cabin gone to ruin,
Just big enough to shelter two in;
And in his house if anybody come,
Will make them welcome to his modicum;
Where goody Julia milks the cows,
And boils potatoes for her spouse;
Or darns his hose, or mends his breeches,
While Harry's fencing up his ditches.
Robin, who ne'er his mind could fix
To live without a coach-and-six,
To patch his broken fortunes, found
A mistress worth five thousand pound;
Swears he could get her in an hour;
If gaffer Harry would endow her;
And sell, to pacify his wrath,
A birthright for a mess of broth.
Young Harry, as all Europe knows,
Was long the quintessence of beaux;
But, when espoused, he ran the fate
That must attend the married state;
From gold brocade and shining armor
Was metamorphosed to a farmer;
His grazier's coat with dirt besmear'd;
Nor twice a-week will shave his beard.
Old Robin, all his youth a sloven,
At fifty-two, when he grew loving,
Clad in a coat of paduasoy,
A flaxen wig, and waistcoat gay,
Powder'd from shoulder down to flank,
In courtly style addresses Frank;
Twice ten years older than his wife,
Is doom'd to be a beau for life;
Supplying those defects by dress
Which I must leave the world to guess.
DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S,
IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND.
THE dean would visit Market-hill,
Our invitation was but slight;
I said "Why let him, if he will;"
And so I bade sir Arthur write.
His manners would not let him wait,
Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
And so we see him at our gate
Three days before he was expected.
After a week, a month, a quarter,
And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
I've said enough to make him blush,
Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,
Nor for my life will take the hint.
But you, my dear, may let him know,
In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaise.
Or you may say "My wife intends,
Though I should be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite some friends,
And, sir, I know you hate a crowd."
Or, "Mr. Dean-I should with joy
Beg you would here continue still,
But we must go to Aghnecloy,1
Or Mr. Moore will take it ill."
The house accounts are daily rising;
So much his stay doth swell the bills:
My dearest life, it is surprising,
How much he eats, how much he swills.
His brace of puppies how they stuff!
And they must have three meals a-day,
Yet never think they get enough;
His horses too eat all our hay.
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 Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean??
O! that I could but once be rid
Of this insulting tyrant dean!
ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL 1727.
Ar Market-hill, as well appears
By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.
Hither came every village maid,
And on the boughs her garland hung;
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure from satyrs, sat and sung.
The seat of Acheson Moore, esq., in the county of Tyrone.
* mere dosing on the me
*90* $cameng xa ima dis:
And was der best gare many a knock
To move and warn the gaps with
The owl freas, in pentire mooi,
The rein of her ancient gear:
And fed in baste, with all her brood,
To week a more secure retreat.
Last trolled forth the gentle swine,
To case ber ich against the stump,
And dismally was heard to whine,
All as she scrubb'd her measly 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,
Received its last and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish'd into air.
Bir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.
Drummond of Hawthornden, and sir William Alexander, earl of Stirling, whe
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:
"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,
Nor 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;
"When thou, suspended high in air,
Diest on a more ignoble tree,
(For thou shalt steal thy landlord's mare,) Then, bloody caitiff! think on me."
IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
HERE lies the earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly served to make fools laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.
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 favorite 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.
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 rouse 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 measly 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,
Received its last and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish'd into air.
'Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.
Drummond of Hawthornden, and sir William Alexander, earl of Stirling, whe
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