The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 42

HORACE, PART OF BOOK I, SAT. VI, PARAPHRASED 1733

If Noisy Tom[1] should in the senate prate, "That he would answer both for church and state; And, farther, to demonstrate his affection, Would take the kingdom into his protection;"

All mortals must be curious to inquire, Who could this c.o.xcomb be, and who his sire?

"What! thou, the sp.a.w.n of him[2] who shamed our isle, Traitor, a.s.sa.s.sin, and informer vile!

Though by the female side,[3] you proudly bring, To mend your breed, the murderer of a king: What was thy grandsire,[4] but a mountaineer, Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year: Whose master Moore[5] preserved him from the halter, For stealing cows! nor could he read the Psalter!

Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chase Thy founder's grandson,[6] and usurp his place?

Just Heaven! to see the dunghill b.a.s.t.a.r.d brood Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?[7]

Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,[8]

In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"[9]

[Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See _post_, p. 266.]

[Footnote 2: The father of Sir Thomas Prendergast, who engaged in a plot to murder King William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer against his a.s.sociates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and made a baronet.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: Cadogan's family.--_F_.]

[Footnote 4: A poor thieving cottager under Mr. Moore, condemned at Clonmel a.s.sizes to be hanged for stealing cows.--_F_.]

[Footnote 5: The grandfather of Guy Moore, Esq., who procured him a pardon._--F._]

[Footnote 6: Guy Moore was fairly elected member of Parliament for Clonmel; but Sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party then prevailing, and since known by the t.i.tle of parson-hunters, pet.i.tioned the House against him; out of which he was turned upon pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted to be.--_F_.]

[Footnote 7: "Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat."--_F_.]

[Footnote 8: Mr. George Faulkner. Mr. Sergeant Bettesworth, a member of the Irish Parliament, having made a complaint to the House of Commons against the "Satire on Quadrille," they voted Faulkner the printer into custody (who was confined closely in prison three days, when he was in a very bad state of health, and his life in much danger) for not discovering the author.--_F_.]

[Footnote 9: Among the poems, etc., preserved by Mr. Smith are verses on the same subject and person with these in the text. The verses are given in Swift's works, edit. Scott, xii, 448.--_W. E. B._]

ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY 1734-5

Make Rundle bishop! fie for shame!

An Arian to usurp the name!

A bishop in the isle of saints!

How will his brethren make complaints!

Dare any of the mitred host Confer on him the Holy Ghost: In mother church to breed a variance, By coupling orthodox with Arians?

Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew: What is there in it strange or new?

For, let us hear the weak pretence, His brethren find to take offence; Of whom there are but four at most, Who know there is a Holy Ghost; The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it, Like Paul's Ephesians, never-heard it; And, when they gave it, well 'tis known They gave what never was their own.

Rundle a bishop! well he may; He's still a Christian more than they.

We know the subject of their quarrels; The man has learning, sense, and morals.

There is a reason still more weighty; 'Tis granted he believes a Deity.

Has every circ.u.mstance to please us, Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus.

But why should he with that be loaded, Now twenty years from court exploded?

And is not this objection odd From rogues who ne'er believed a G.o.d?

For liberty a champion stout, Though not so Gospel-ward devout.

While others, hither sent to save us Come but to plunder and enslave us; Nor ever own'd a power divine, But Mammon, and the German line.

Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?

Who shew'd a better _jus divinum_?

From ancient canons would not vary, But thrice refused _episcopari_.

Our bishop's predecessor, Magus, Would offer all the sands of Tagus; Or sell his children, house, and lands, For that one gift, to lay on hands: But all his gold could not avail To have the spirit set to sale.

Said surly Peter, "Magus, prithee, Be gone: thy money perish with thee."

Were Peter now alive, perhaps, He might have found a score of chaps, Could he but make his gift appear In rents three thousand pounds a-year.

Some fancy this promotion odd, As not the handiwork of G.o.d; Though e'en the bishops disappointed Must own it made by G.o.d's anointed, And well we know, the _conge_ regal Is more secure as well as legal; Because our lawyers all agree, That bishoprics are held in fee.

Dear Baldwin[1] chaste, and witty Crosse,[2]

How sorely I lament your loss!

That such a pair of wealthy ninnies Should slip your time of dropping guineas; For, had you made the king your debtor, Your t.i.tle had been so much better.

[Footnote 1: Richard Baldwin, Provost of Trinity College in 1717. He left behind him many natural children.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Rector of St. Mary's Dublin, in 1722; before which time he had been chaplain to the Smyrna Company. See the Epistolary Correspondence, May 26, 1720.--_Scott_.]

EPIGRAM

Friend Rundle fell, with grievous b.u.mp, Upon his reverential rump.

Poor rump! thou hadst been better sped, Hadst thou been join'd to Boulter's head; A head, so weighty and profound, Would needs have kept thee from the ground.

A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION CLUB

1736

The immediate provocation to this fierce satire upon the Irish Parliament was the introduction of a Bill to put an end to the t.i.the on pasturage, called _agistment_, and thus to free the landlords from a legal payment, with severe loss to the Church.

As I stroll the city, oft I See a building large and lofty, Not a bow-shot from the college; Half the globe from sense and knowledge By the prudent architect, Placed against the church direct,[1]

Making good my grandam's jest, "Near the church"--you know the rest.[2]

Tell us what the pile contains?

Many a head that has no brains.

These demoniacs let me dub With the name of Legion[3] Club.

Such a.s.semblies, you might swear, Meet when butchers bait a bear: Such a noise, and such haranguing, When a brother thief's a hanging: Such a rout and such a rabble Run to hear Jackpudding gabble: Such a crowd their ordure throws On a far less villain's nose.

Could I from the building's top Hear the rattling thunder drop, While the devil upon the roof (If the devil be thunder proof) Should with poker fiery red Crack the stones, and melt the lead; Drive them down on every skull, When the den of thieves is full; Quite destroy that harpies' nest; How might then our isle be blest!

For divines allow, that G.o.d Sometimes makes the devil his rod; And the gospel will inform us, He can punish sins enormous.

Yet should Swift endow the schools, For his lunatics and fools, With a rood or two of land, I allow the pile may stand.

You perhaps will ask me, Why so?

But it is with this proviso: Since the house is like to last, Let the royal grant be pa.s.s'd, That the club have right to dwell Each within his proper cell, With a pa.s.sage left to creep in And a hole above for peeping.

Let them, when they once get in, Sell the nation for a pin; While they sit a-picking straws, Let them rave of making laws; While they never hold their tongue, Let them dabble in their dung: Let them form a grand committee, How to plague and starve the city; Let them stare, and storm, and frown, When they see a clergy gown; Let them, ere they crack a louse, Call for th'orders of the house; Let them, with their gosling quills, Scribble senseless heads of bills; We may, while they strain their throats, Wipe our a--s with their votes.

Let Sir Tom,[4] that rampant a.s.s, Stuff his guts with flax and gra.s.s; But before the priest he fleeces, Tear the Bible all to pieces: At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, Worthy offspring of a s...o...b..y, Footman, traitor, vile seducer, Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, Lay thy privilege aside, From Papist sprung, and regicide; Fall a-working like a mole, Raise the dirt about thy hole.

Come, a.s.sist me, Muse obedient!