The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, D.D. ...

The magpie, lighting on the stock,

Stood chattering with incessant din: And with her beak gave many a knock,

To rouse and warn the nymph within.

The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,
The ruin of her ancient seat;
And fled in haste, with all her brood,
To seek a more secure retreat.

Last trolled forth the gentle swine,
To ease her itch against the stump,
And dismally was heard to whine,

All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump.

The nymph who dwells in every tree,
(If all be true that poets chant)
Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree,
Must die with her expiring plant.

Thus, when the gentle Spina found
The thorn committed to her care,
Receiv'd its last and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish'd into air.

But from the root a dismal groan

First issuing struck the murderer's ears;

And, in a shrill revengeful tone,

This prophecy he trembling hears:

"Thou chief contriver of my fall,
Relentless dean, to mischief born;
My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,
Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.

And

And thy confederate dame, who brags
That she condemn'd me to the fire,
Shall rend her petticoats to rags,

And wound her legs with every brier.

Nor thou, lord Arthur, shalt escape;
To thee I often call'd in vain,

Against that assassin in crape;

Yet thou could'st tamely see me slain :

Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,

Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse;
Since you could see me treated so
(An old retainer to your house):

May that fell Dean, by whose command
Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,

Not leave a thistle on thy land;

Then who will own thee for a Scot?

Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
Through all my empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges join in leagues,

Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
Near Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hallow'd timber down;

When thou, suspended high in air,
Diest on a more ignoble tree,

(For thou shalt steal thy landlord's mare,)
Then, bloody caitiff! think on me."

* Sir Arthur Acheson. F.

EPITAPH.

EPITAPH,

IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

HERE lies the earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly serv'd to make folks laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.

Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?

Dickies enough are still behind,

To laugh at by and by.

Buried June 18, 1728, aged 63.

MY LADY'S LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN.

JULY 28, 1728.

SURE never did man never did man

see

A wretch like poor
Nancy,

So teas'd day and night
By a Dean and a Knight,
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe
With Skinny and Snipe:
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the dean.

The Dean never stops,
When he opens his
chops;
I'm quite overrun
With rebus and pun.

Before he came here,
To spunge for good
cheer,
I sate with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old gums,

* Lady Acheson. F.

Or scratching my nose, And jogging my toes; But at present, forsooth, I must not rub a tooth. When my elbows he sees Held up by my knees, My arms, like two props, Supporting my chops, And just as I handle 'em Moving all like a pendulum;

He trips up my props, And down mychin drops, From my head to my

heels,

And, say what I will, Haul'd up every hill; Till, daggled and tatter'd,

My spirits quite shatter'd,

I return home at night, And fast, out of spite: For I'd rather be dead, Than it e'er should be said,

I was better for him, In stomach or limb. But now to my diet; No eating in quiet,

Like a clock without He's still finding fault,

wheels;

I sink in the spleen,
A useless machine.

If he had his will,
I should never sit still:
He comes with hiswhims,
I must move my limbs;
I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath,
He tires me to death.
Bytheworst of all squires,
Through bogs and thro'
briers,

Too sour or too salt:

The wing of a chick
I hardly can pick ;
But trash without mea-

sure

I swallow with pleasure.
Next for his diver-
sion,
He rails at my person.
What court breeding

this is !

He takes me to pieces: From shoulder to flank I'm lean and am lank;

Where a cow would be My nose, long and thin, Grows down to my chin;

startled,

I'm in spite of my heart My chin will not stay,

To 'scape them, sir Ar- What he means by this

thur

Is forc'd to lie farther,

Or his sides they would

gore

Like the tusk of a boar. Now changing the

scene,

But still to the Dean;
He loves to be bitter at
A lady illiterate;

If he sees her but once,
He'll swear she's a dunce;
Can tell by her looks
A hater of books;
Through each line of
her face
Her folly can trace;
Which spoils every fea

ture

Bestow'd her by nature; But sense gives a grace To the homeliest face: Wise books and reflec

tion

Will mend the complexion:

ing?

You're now in your

prime, Make use of your time. Consider, before You come to threescore, How the hussies will fleer Where'er you appear; "That silly old puss Would fain be like us: What a figure she made In her tarnish'd brocade!".

And then he grows mild: Come, be a good child: If you are inclin'd To polish your mind, Be ador'd by the men Till threescore and ten, And

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The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, D.D. ...: With Notes ..., Volume 16