The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 6

[Footnote 10: A usual saying of hers.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 11: Swift.]

[Footnote 12: Dr. Bolton, one of the chaplains.--_Faulkner_.]

[Footnote 13: A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.]

[Footnote 14: Swift elsewhere terms his own calling a _trade_. See his letter to Pope, 29th Sept., 1725, cited in Introduction to Gulliver, "Prose Works," vol. viii, p. xxv.--_W. E. B_.]

A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC

WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699

My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal, Delivers cards about, But the first knave does seldom fail To find the doctor out.

But then his honour cried, Gadzooks!

And seem'd to knit his brow: For on a knave he never looks But he thinks upon Jack How.[2]

My lady, though she is no player, Some bungling partner takes, And, wedged in corner of a chair, Takes snuff, and holds the stakes.

Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense For pair royals and sequents; But, wisely cautious of her pence, The castle seldom frequents.

Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases, I'd won it, on my word, If I had but a pair of aces, And could pick up a third.

But Weston has a new-cast gown On Sundays to be fine in, And, if she can but win a crown, 'Twill just new dye the lining.

"With these is Parson Swift,[5]

Not knowing how to spend his time, Does make a wretched s.h.i.+ft, To deafen them with puns and rhyme."

[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley.]

[Footnote 2: Paymaster to the Forces, "Prose Works," ii, 23.]

[Footnote 3: A beauty and a favourite with Swift. See his verses on her, _post_, p. 50. He often mentions her in the Journal to Stella, especially with respect to her having the smallpox, and her recovery. "Prose Works,"

ii, 138, 141, 143. 259.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Mrs. Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.]

[Footnote 5: Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards wife of Sir John Germaine.]

A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1]

WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702

I

Once on a time, as old stories rehea.r.s.e, 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 s.p.a.ce, And so went to bed in a desperate case: When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle!

He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle.

CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't; Who would not write verses with such an a.s.sistant?

II

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 cas.e.m.e.nt; And it needs must be one that could both read and write; Yet he did not know, 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 fill'd it so well of himself.

CHO. Let censuring, &c.

III

Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains In making a ballad, but was at a stand; He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, When he found a new help from invisible hand.

Then, good Doctor Swift Pay thanks for the gift, For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; And, though some malicious young spirit did do't, You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot.

CHO. Let censuring, &c.

[Footnote 1: 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_.

The _Cut-Purse_ is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the ballad is: "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."--_W. E. B._]

THE DISCOVERY

When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1]

Statesmen and mob expected wonders, Nor thought to find so great a peer Ere a week past committing blunders.

Till on a day cut out by fate, When folks came thick to make their court, Out slipt a mystery of state To give the town and country sport.

Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs, His lords.h.i.+p's premier minister; And who in all profound affairs, Is held as needful as his clyster.[2]

With head reclining on his shoulder, He deals and hears mysterious chat, While every ignorant beholder Asks of his neighbour, who is that?

With this he put up to my lord, The courtiers kept their distance due, He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word; Then to a corner both withdrew.

Imagine now my lord and Bush Whispering in junto most profound, Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3]

While all the rest stood gaping round.

At length a spark, not too well bred, Of forward face and ear acute, Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head, To overhear the grand dispute; To learn what Northern kings design, Or from Whitehall some new express, Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin; For sure (thought he) it can't be less.

My lord, said Bush, a friend and I, 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 circ.u.mflex, 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.[4]