The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 31

TORY. Why then the proverb is not right, Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.

WHIG. I proved my proposition full: But Jacobites are strangely dull.

Now, let me tell you plainly, sir, Our witness is a real cur, A dog of spirit for his years; Has twice two legs, two hanging ears; His name is Harlequin, I wot, And that's a name in every plot: Resolved to save the British nation, Though French by birth and education; His correspondence plainly dated, Was all decipher'd and translated: His answers were exceeding pretty, Before the secret wise committee; Confest as plain as he could bark: Then with his fore-foot set his mark.

TORY. Then all this while have I been bubbled, I thought it was a dog in doublet: The matter now no longer sticks: For statesmen never want dog-tricks.

But since it was a real cur, And not a dog in metaphor, I give you joy of the report, That he's to have a place at court.

WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in; A turnspit in the royal kitchen.

Sir, to be plain, I tell you what, We had occasion for a plot; And when we found the dog begin it, We guess'd the bishop's foot was in it.

TORY. I own it was a dangerous project, And you have proved it by dog-logic.

Sure such intelligence between A dog and bishop ne'er was seen, Till you began to change the breed; Your bishops are all dogs indeed!

[Footnote 1: In Atterbury's trial a good deal of stress was laid upon the circ.u.mstance of a "spotted little dog" called Harlequin being mentioned in the intercepted correspondence. The dog was sent in a present to the bishop from Paris, and its leg was broken by the way. See "State Trials,"

xvi, 320 and 376-7.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: John Kelly, and Skin, or Skinner, were persons engaged in the plot. Neynoe, whose declaration was taken before the lords of council, and used in evidence against the bishop, is "t'other puppy that was drown'd," which was his fate in attempting to escape from the messengers.]

A QUIBBLING ELEGY ON JUDGE BOAT 1723

To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note, Since cruel fate has sunk our Justice Boat; Why should he sink, where nothing seem'd to press His lading little, and his ballast less?

Tost in the waves of this tempestuous world, At length, his anchor fix'd and canva.s.s furl'd, To Lazy-hill[1] retiring from his court, At his Ring's end[2] he founders in the port.

With water[3] fill'd, he could no longer float, The common death of many a stronger boat.

A post so fill'd on nature's laws entrenches: Benches on boats are placed, not boats on benches.

And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?) Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot.

With every wind he sail'd, and well could tack: Had many pendants, but abhorr'd a Jack.[4]

He's gone, although his friends began to hope, That he might yet be lifted by a rope.

Behold the awful bench, on which he sat!

He was as hard and ponderous wood as that: Yet when his sand was out, we find at last, That death has overset him with a blast.

Our Boat is now sail'd to the Stygian ferry, There to supply old Charon's leaky wherry; Charon in him will ferry souls to h.e.l.l; A trade our Boat[5] has practised here so well: And Cerberus has ready in his paws Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws.

Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain We may place Boat in his old post again.

The way is thus: and well deserves your thanks: Take the three strongest of his broken planks, Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen, Form'd like the triple tree near Stephen's Green:[6]

And, when we view it thus with thief at end on't, We'll cry; look, here's our Boat, and there's the pendant.

THE EPITAPH

Here lies Judge Boat within a coffin: Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing.

A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder?

A wooden judge is no such wonder.

And in his robes you must agree, No boat was better deckt than he.

'Tis needless to describe him fuller; In short, he was an able sculler.[7]

[Footnote 1: A street in Dublin, leading to the harbour.]

[Footnote 2: A village near the sea.]

[Footnote 3: It was said he died of a dropsy.]

[Footnote 4: A cant word for a Jacobite.]

[Footnote 5: In condemning malefactors, as a judge.]

[Footnote 6: Where the Dublin gallows stands.]

[Footnote 7: Query, whether the author meant scholar, and wilfully mistook?--_Dublin Edition._]

VERSES OCCASIONED BY WHITSHED'S [1] MOTTO ON HIS COACH. 1724

Libertas _et natale solum:_ [2]

Fine words! I wonder where you stole 'em.

Could nothing but thy chief reproach Serve for a motto on thy coach?

But let me now the words translate: _Natale solum_, my estate; My dear estate, how well I love it, My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it, They swear I am so kind and good, I hug them till I squeeze their blood.

_Libertas_ bears a large import: First, how to swagger in a court; And, secondly, to show my fury Against an uncomplying jury; And, thirdly, 'tis a new invention, To favour Wood, and keep my pension; And, fourthly, 'tis to play an odd trick, Get the great seal and turn out Broderick;[3]

And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean,) To humble that vexatious Dean: And, sixthly, for my soul to barter it For fifty times its worth to Carteret.[4]

Now since your motto thus you construe, I must confess you've spoken once true.

_Libertas et natale solum:_ You had good reason when you stole 'em.

[Footnote 1: That noted chief-justice who twice prosecuted the Drapier, and dissolved the grand jury for not finding the bill against him.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: This motto is repeatedly mentioned in the Drapier's Letters.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Allan Broderick, Lord Middleton, was then lord-chancellor of Ireland. See the Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vi, 135.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.]

PROMETHEUS[1]

ON WOOD THE PATENTEE'S IRISH HALFPENCE[2]

1724

When first the squire and tinker Wood Gravely consulting Ireland's good, Together mingled in a ma.s.s Smith's dust, and copper, lead, and bra.s.s; The mixture thus by chemic art United close in ev'ry part, In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces, Appear'd like one continued species; And, by the forming engine struck, On all the same impression took.

So, to confound this hated coin, All parties and religions join; Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians, Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians, Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite, With equal interest, equal spite Together mingled in a lump, Do all in one opinion jump; And ev'ry one begins to find The same impression on his mind.

A strange event! whom gold incites To blood and quarrels, bra.s.s unites; So goldsmiths say, the coa.r.s.est stuff Will serve for solder well enough: So by the kettle's loud alarms The bees are gather'd into swarms, So by the brazen trumpet's bl.u.s.ter Troops of all tongues and nations muster; And so the harp of Ireland brings Whole crowds about its brazen strings.

There is a chain let down from Jove, But fasten'd to his throne above, So strong that from the lower end, They say all human things depend.

This chain, as ancient poets hold, When Jove was young, was made of gold, Prometheus once this chain purloin'd, Dissolved, and into money coin'd; Then whips me on a chain of bra.s.s; (Venus[3] was bribed to let it pa.s.s.) Now while this brazen chain prevail'd, Jove saw that all devotion fail'd; No temple to his G.o.ds.h.i.+p raised; No sacrifice on altars blazed; In short, such dire confusion follow'd, Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd.

Jove stood amazed; but looking round, With much ado the cheat he found; 'Twas plain he could no longer hold The world in any chain but gold; And to the G.o.d of wealth, his brother, Sent Mercury to get another.

Prometheus on a rock is laid, Tied with the chain himself had made, On icy Caucasus to s.h.i.+ver, While vultures eat his growing liver.

Ye powers of Grub-Street, make me able Discreetly to apply this fable; Say, who is to be understood By that old thief Prometheus?--Wood.

For Jove, it is not hard to guess him; I mean his majesty, G.o.d bless him.