The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 49

EPIGRAM

Great folks are of a finer mould; Lord! how politely they can scold!

While a coa.r.s.e English tongue will itch, For wh.o.r.e and rogue, and dog and b.i.t.c.h.

EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT[1]

ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2]

Lord Pam[3] in the church (you'd you think it) kneel'd down; When told that the Duke was just come to Town-- His station despising, unawed by the place, He flies from his G.o.d to attend to his Grace.

To the Court it was better to pay his devotion, Since G.o.d had no hand in his Lords.h.i.+p's promotion.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, "The Storm," at p. 242.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French _Pamphile_. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that t.i.tle from the days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was promoted _non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus_.

From a note in "The Toast," by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London, 1736.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM[1]

Behold! a proof of _Irish_ sense; Here _Irish_ wit is seen!

When nothing's left that's worth defence, We build a magazine.

[Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician, Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, "Oh! Oh!"

said the Dean, "This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my tablets"--and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above epigram.--_W. E. B._]

TRIFLES

GEORGE ROCHFORT'S VERSES FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, AT LARACOR, NEAR TRIM

MUSA CLONSHOGHIANA

That Downpatrick's Dean, or Patrick's down went, Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant; So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent, Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent.

Our parsons agree here, as those did at Trent, Dan's forehead has got a most d.a.m.nable dent, Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent.

But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly bent, With your b.l.o.o.d.y ouns in one stanza pent; Does Jack's utter ruin at picket prevent, For an answer in specie to yours must be sent; So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent, And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint, Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment; But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent.

Bellcampe, January 1, 1717.

A LEFT-HANDED LETTER[1]

TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718

Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue, That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung; We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst, Yet still are no wiser than we were at first.

_Pudet haec opprobria_, I freely must tell ye, _Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli._ Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer, You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2]; I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score; How many to answer? One, two, three, or four, But, because the three former are long ago past, I shall, for method-sake, begin with the last.

You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe, Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow.

Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field, Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield.

So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them, Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, _Te Deum._ So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground, Comes off by out-laughing the company round: In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies, Having thus overthrown all our farther advances.

My offers of peace you ill understood; Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good?

'Twas to teach you in modester language your duty; For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye; As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends.

But we like Antaeus and Hercules fight, The oftener you fall, the oftener you write: And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown, I'll first take you up, and then take you down; And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound The worst dunce in your school, till he's heaved from the ground.

I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of business. September 20, 1718.--I will send you the rest when I have leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.

[Footnote 1: The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility of printing it left-handed as it was written.--_H_.]

[Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see "Prose Works,"

v, 326.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, especially p. 404.--_W. E. B._]

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S IN ANSWER TO HIS LEFT-HANDED LETTER

Since your poetic prancer is turn'd into Cancer, I'll tell you at once, sir, I'm now not your man, sir; For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground?

When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back; But I found out the way to your den by its track: From thence the black monster I drew, o' my conscience, And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense.

When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue, You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew; Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair, Therefore turn about to the right, as you were; Then if with true courage your ground you maintain, My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain: Who's greater by far than great Alexander, As much as a teal surpa.s.ses a gander; As much as a game-c.o.c.k's excell'd by a sparrow; As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow: As much and much more as the most handsome man Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan.

T. SHERIDAN.

This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called the left hand.

Oft have I been by poets told, That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old.

Alas, thy numbers failing all, Poor Jonathan, how they do fall!

Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell, Now jingle like a rusty bridle: Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet, Now limp upon their gouty feet: Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime, Are humbled by the tyrant, Time: Alas! what cannot Time subdue?

Time has reduced my wine and you; Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings, Disabled both in our main springs; So that of late we two are grown The jest and scorn of all the town.

But yet, if my advice be ta'en, We two may be as great again; I'll send you wings, you send me wine; Then you will fly, and I shall s.h.i.+ne.

This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.

How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her; Little did she know, I was _ambidexter_.

T. SHERIDAN.