How I should hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sheridan the rogue would sneer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That semel in anno ridet Apollo.
I have assur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phoebus inspir'd me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me so dull and dry since,
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I ask for Stella's sake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake:
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander by.

Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this answer to a tittlę.

Though you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hints, and you shall use all 'em,
You yearly sing as she grows old,

You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to say truth, such dulness reigns,
Through the whole set of Irish deans,
I'm daily stunn'd with such a medley
Dean W, dean D, and dean Smedley,
That, let what dean soever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;
And if your voice had not been loud,

You must have pass'd among the crowd.
But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;

For she, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her describe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar on the ground:
A spade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould.
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated toward the skies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Pour'd in a strong inspiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A sovereign medicine for the brains.

You'll find it soon, if fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archys, arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the Muse;
But first let Robert on his knees
With caution drain it from the lees:
The Muse will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the

year.

A SATIRICAL

A SATIRICAL ELEGY.

ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL. 1722.

HIS Grace! impossible! what dead!

Of old age too, and in his bed!

And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all?

Well, since he's gone, no matter how,

The last loud trump must wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.

And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we're told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
"Twas time in conscience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that's the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,

Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,

Attend the progress of his hearse.

But what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died.

Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate!

Let Pride be taught by this rebuke,

How very mean a thing's a duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.

DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION

TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON,

"Non domus aut fundus-" HOR.

IT was, my lord, the dextrous shift

Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now St. Patrick's saucy dean,
With silver verge and surplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace,
In looser rhyme to beg a place.
A place he got, yclept a stall,
And eke a thousand pound withal;
And, were he less a witty writer,
He might as well have got a mitre.

Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble lays, my thanks to offer,
Approach your grace with grateful heart,
My thanks and verse both void of art,
Content with what your bounty gave,
No larger income do I crave:
Rejoicing that, in better times,
Grafton requires my loyal lines.
Proud! while my patron is polite,
I likewise to the patriot write!

Proud!

Proud! that at once I can commend
King George's and the Muses' friend!
Endear'd to Britain; and to thee
(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea)
Endear'd by twice three anxious years,
Employ'd in guardian toils and cares;
By love, by wisdom, and by skill;

For he has sav'd thee 'gainst thy will.
But where shall Smedley make his nest,
And lay his wandering head to rest?
Where shall he find a decent house,
To treat his friends, and cheer his spouse:
O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure;
In wholesome soil, and ether pure;
The garden stor'd with artless flowers,
In either angle shady bowers.
No gay parterre, with costly green,
Within the ambient hedge be seen:
Let Nature freely take her course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful force;
No sheers shall check her sprouting vigour,
Nor shape the yews to antic figure:
A limpid brook shall trout supply,
In May, to take the mimic fly;
Round a small orchard may

it run,

Whose apples redden to the sun.
Let all be snug, and warm, and neat;
For fifty turn'd a safe retreat,

A little Euston * may it be,

Euston I'll carve on every tree.
But then, to keep it in repair,
My lord twice fifty pounds a year

* The name of the duke's seat, in Suffolk. N.