« VorigeDoorgaan »
She's now as handfome every bit,
And has a thoufand times her wit.
The Dean and Sheridan, I hope,
Will half fupply a Gay and Pope.
Corbet*, though yet I know his worth not,
No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot.
I throw into the bargain Tim;
In London can you equal him?"
you of favourite clan,
Robin +, and Jack, and Jack and Dan;
Fellows of modeft worth and parts,
With chearful looks and honeft hearts?
Can you on Dublin look with fcorn ?
Yet here were you and Ormond born.
Oh! were but you and I fo wife,
To fee with Robert Grattan's eyes!"
Robin adores that spot of earth,
That literal fpot which gave him birth;
And fwears," Belcamp ‡ is, to his taste,
"As fine as Hampton-court at least.”
When to your friends you would enhance
The praife of Italy or France,
For grandeur, elegance, and wit,
We gladly hear you, and fubmit:
But then, to come and keep a clutter,
For this or that fide of a gutter,
* Dr. Corbet, afterwards dean of St. Patrick's. + R. and J. Grattan, and J. and D. Jackson. In Fingall, about five miles from Dublin.
To live in this or t' other ifle,
We cannot think it worth your
For, take it kindly or amifs,
The difference but amounts to this,
We bury on our fide the channel
In linen; and on your's in flannel*.
You for the news are ne'er to feek;
While we, perhaps, may wait a week:
You happy folks are fure to meet
An hundred whores in every ftreet;
While we may trace all Dublin o'er
Before we find out half a fcore.
You fee my arguments are strongs.
I wonder you held out fo long:
But, fince you are convinc'd at last,.
We'll pardon you for what is past.
So - let us now for whift prepare;
Twelve-pence a corner, if you dare.
OAN cudgels Ned, yet Ned 's a bully;
Will cudgels Befs, yet Will's a cully.
Die Ned and Befs; give Will to Joan,
She dares not fay her life 's her own.
Die Joan and Will; give Befs to Ned,
every day the combs his head.
*The law for burying in woolen was extended to Ireland in 1733
A QUIBBLING ELEGY,
ON JUDGE BOAT. 1723.
mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note,
Since cruel fate hath funk our juflice Boat.
Why should he fink, where nothing feem'd to prefs, His lading little, and his ballaft lefs?
Toft in the waves of this tempeft ous world,
At length, his anchor fixt and canvas furl'd,
To Lazy-hill retiring from his court,
At his Ring's-end * he founders in the port.
With water fill'd, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a ftronger boat.
A poft fo fill'd on nature's laws entrenches:
Benches on boats are plac'd, not boats on benches.
And yet our Boat (how fhall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Boat, and in one fenfe a pilot.
With every wind he fail'd, and well could tack
Had many pendents, but abhorr'd a Jack ‡.
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 fat!
He was as hard and ponderous wood as that:
Yet, when his fand was out, we find at laft,.
That death has overfet him with a blast.
Two villages near the fea.
It was faid he died of a dropfy.
A cant word for a Jacobite.
Our Boat is now fail'd to the Stygian ferry,
There to fupply old Charon's leaky wherry:
Charon in him will ferry fouls to hell;
A trade our Boat * hath practis'd here fo well:
And Cerberus hath ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimftone, to fill up his flaws.
Yet, fpite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Boat in his old post again.
The way is thus; and well deferves your
Take the three strongest of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, confpicuous to be seen,
Form'd like the triple-tree near Stephen's-green +;
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,
HERE lies judge Boat within a coffin
Pray, gentle-folks, forbear your fcoffing.
A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder?
A wooden judge is no fuch wonder.
And in his robes, you must agree,
No Boat was better deckt than he.
"Tis needlefs to defcribe him fuller;
In short, he was an able sculler.
In condemning malefactors, as a judge.
+ Where the Dublin gallows ftands.
THE GREAT. 1723.
ROM Venus born, thy beauty shows;
But who thy father, no man knows :
Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race;
Whether thy temper, full of fire,.
Discovers Vulcan for thy fire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin fing'd the foil
(From whence, philofophers agree,
An equal power defcends to thee);
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high defcent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, fhew numerous fcars
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you. bore
From head to foot, and all before,
And still the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader's tent;
Or whether, as the learn'd contend,
You from the neighbouring Gaul defcend;
Or from Parthenope the proud,
Where numberlefs thy votaries croud;
Whether thy great forefathers came
From realms that bear Vefputio's name
(For fo conjecturers would obtrude;
And from thy painted fkin conclude);
*This name is plainly an anagram.