This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods,
And a very good book against Mr. Wood's;
If you stand true together, he 's left in the suds.
Which, &c.
Ye shopmen and tradesmen, and farmers, go read it,
For I think in my soul at this time that you need it;
Or egad, if you don't, there's an end of your credit.
Which nobody can deny.

A SERIOUS POEM

UPON WILLIAM WOOD,

Brasier, Tinker, Hardwareman, Coiner, Founder, and Esquire.

WHEN foes are o'ercome we preserve them from slaughter,

To be hewers at wood and drawers of water,
Now, although to draw water is not very good;
Yet we all should rejoice to be hewers of Wood.
I own, it has often provok'd me to mutter,
That a rogue so obscure should make such a clutter;
But ancient philosophers wisely remark,
That old rotten Wood will shine in the dark,
The Heathens we read, had gods made of Wood,
Who could do them no barm, if they did them no
But this idol Wood may do us great evil; [good:
Their gods were of Wood; but our Wood is the
Devil,

To cut down fine Wood, is a very bad thing;
And yet we all know much gold it will bring.
Then, if cutting down Wood brings money good store,
Our money to keep, let us cut down one more.

Now hear an old tale. There anciently stood
(I forget in what church) an image of Wood.
Concerning this image there went a prediction.
It would burn a whole forest; nor was it a fiction.
'Twas cut into faggots and put to the flame.
To burn an old friar, one Forest by name.
My tale is a wise one, if well understood:
Find you but the Friar; and I'll find the Wood. T
I hear, among scholars there is a great doubt
From what kind of tree this Wood was hewn out.
Teague made a good pun by a brogue in his speech;
And said, By my shoul, he's the son of a BEECH.
Some call him a Thorn, the curse of the nation,
As Thorns were design'd to be from the creation.
Some think him cut out from the poisonous Yew,
Beneath whose ill shade no plant ever grew.
Some say he's a Birch, a thought very odd;
For none but a dunce would come under his rod.
But I'll tell you the secret; but pray do not blab;
He is an old stump cut out of a Crab;

And England has put this Crab to a hard use,
To cudgel our bones, and for drink give us verjuice;
And therefore his witnesses justly may boast,
That none are more properly knights of the Post.
I ne'er could endure my talent to smother;
I told you one tale, and I'll tell you another.
A joiner, to fasten a saint in a nitch,

Bor'd a large auger-hole in the image's breech;
But, finding the statue to make no complaint,
He would ne'er be convinc'd it was a true saint.
When the true Wood arrives, as he soon will, no
doubt,

(For that 's but a sham Wood they carry about 1)
What stuff he is made of you quickly may find,
If you make the same trial, and bore him behind.
He was frequently burnt in effigy.

I'll hold you a groat, when you wimble his bum,
He'll bellow as loud as the Devil in a drum.
From me, I declare, you shall have no denial;
And there can be no harm in making a trial:
And, when to the joy of your hearts he has roar'd,
You may show him about for a new groaning board.
Hear one story more, and then I will stop.
I dreamt Wood was told he should die by a drop;
So methought he resolved no liquor to taste,
For fear the first drop might as well be his last.
But dreams are like oracles; 'tis hard to explain 'em ;
For it prov'd that he died of a drop at Kilmainham 2.
I wak'd with delight; and not without hope,
Very soon to see Hood drop down from a rope.
How he! and how we, at each other should grin !
'Tis kindness to hold a friend up by the chin.
But soft! says the herald; I cannot agree;
For metal on metal is false heraldry.
Why that may be true; yet Wood upon Wood,
I'll maintain with my life, is heraldry good.

SIR,

TO DR. SHERIDAN.

Dec. 14, 1719 3, 9 at night.

It is impossible to know by your letter whether the wine is to be bottled to morrow, or no.

If it be, or be not, why did not you, in plain English, tell us so?

For my part, it was by mere chance I came to sit with the ladies this night :

4

And if they had not told me there was a letter from you; and your man Alexander had not gone, and come back from the deanry; and the boy here had not been sent to let Alexander know I was here; I should have missed the letter outright.

Truly I don't know who 's bound to be sending for corks to stop your bottles, with a vengeance. Make a page of your own age, and send your man Alexander to buy corks; for Saunders already has gone above ten jaunts.

Mrs. Dingley and Mrs. Johnson say, truly they don care for your wife's company, though they like your wine; but they had rather have it at their own house to drink in quiet.

However, they own it is very civil in Mr. Sheridan to make the offer: and they cannot deny it.

I wish Alexander safe at St. Catharine's to night, with all my heart and soul, upon my word and honour:

But I think it base in you to send a poor fellow out so late at this time of year, when one would not turn out a dog that one valued; I appeal to your friend Mr. Connor.

I would present my humble service to my lady Mountcashel; but truly I thought she would have made advances to have been acquainted with me, as she pretended.

But now I can write no more, for you see plainly my paper is ended.

1 P. S.

I wish, when you prated, your letter you 'd dated: Much plague it created. I scolded and rated;

2 Their place of execution.

3 This is probably dated too early. + Mrs. Dingley and Mrs. Johnson.

DEAR Dean, since you in sleepy wise
Have op'd your mouth, and clos'd your eyes;
Like ghost, I glide along your floor,
And softly shut the parlour-door:
For, should I break your sweet repose,
Who knows what money you might lose ;
Since oftentimes it has been found,

A dream has given ten thousand pound?
Then sleep, my friend; dear dean, sleep on,
And all you get shall be your own;
Provided you to this agree,
That all you lose belongs to me.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER.

So, about twelve at night, the punk
Steals from the cully when he 's drunk ;
Nor is contented with a treat,
Without her privilege to cheat.
Nor can I the least difference find,
But that you left no clap behind.
But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye,

My twelve thirteens and six-pence ha'penny.
To eat my meat, and drink my medlicot,
And then to give me such a deadly cut-
But 'tis observ'd, that men in gowns
Are most inclin'd to plunder crowns.
Could you but change a crown as easy

As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye!
I thought the lady at St Catharine's 6
Knew how to set you better patterns;
For this I will not dine with Agmondisham 7,
And for his vietuals let a ragman dish 'em.

THE STORM:

MINERVA'S PETITION.

PALLAS, a goddess chaste and wise,
Descending lately from the skies,
To Neptune went, and begg'd in form
He 'd give his orders for a storm;
A storm, to drown that rascal Horte,
And she would kindly thank him for 't:

Dr. Thomas Sheridan.

2 Charles Ford of Woodpark, Esq.
Reverend John Grattan,
Reverend Daniel Jackson.

A shilling passeth for thirteen-pence in Ireland.
Lady Mountcashel.

7 WAgmondisham Vesey, esq. a very worthy gentleman, for whom the dean had a great esteem. VOL. XI.

Had lately honour'd with a mitre.
The god, who favour'd her request,
Assur'd her he would do his best:
But Venus had been there before,
Pleaded the bishop lov'd a whore,
And had enlarg'd her empire wide;
He own'd no deity beside.

At sea or land, if e'er you found him
Without a mistress, hang or drown him.
Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench,
Till Horte arriv'd, ne'er kept a wench:
If Horte must sink, she grieves to tell it,
She'll not have left one single prelate,
For, to say truth, she did intend him,
Elect of Cyprus in commendam.
And, since her birth the ocean gave her,
She could not doubt her uncle's favour.

Then Proteus urg'd the same request,
But half in earnest, half in jest ;
Said he "Great sovereign of the main,
To drown him all attempts are vain;
Horte can assume more forms than I,
A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy;
Can creep or run, or fly or swim;
All motions are alike to him:
Turn him adrift, and you shall find
He knows to sail with every wind;
Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride
As well against, as with the tide.
But, Pallas, you 've apply'd too late;
For 'tis decreed, by Jove and fate,
That Ireland must be soon destroy'd,
And who but Horte can be employ'd?
You need not then have been so pert,
In sending Bolton to Clonfert.

I found you did it, by your grinning;
Your business is, to mind your spinning.
But how you came to interpose
In making bishops, no one knows:
Or who regarded your report;
For never were you seen at court.
And if you must have your petition,
There's Berkeley 2 in the same condition
Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just,
If one must drown, the other mast;
But, if you 'll leave us bishop Judas,
We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.
Now, 'twill gratify your spite,
To put him in a plaguy fright,
Although 'tis hardly worth the cost,
You soon shall see him soundly tost.

You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn (And every moment take a dram)

His ghastly visage with an air

Of reprobation and despair:

Or else some hiding-hole he seeks,

For fear the rest should say he squeaks;

Or, as Fitzpatrick 3 did before,

Resolve to perish with his whore;

Or else he raves, and roars, and swears, And, but for shame, would say his prayers.

1 Afterwards archbishop of Cashell.

2 Dr. George Berkeley, dean of Derry, and afterwards bishop of Cloyne.

3 Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats in the bay of Dublin, in a great storm

Ga

Or, would you see his spirits sink,
Relaxing downwards in a stink?
If such a sight as this can please ye,
Good madam Pallas, pray be easy,
To Neptune speak, and be 'll consent;
But he'll come back the knave he went."
The goddess who conceiv'd an hope
That Horte was destin'd to a rope,
Believ'd it best to condescend
To spare a foe, to save a friend :

But, fearing Berkeley might he scar'd,
She left him virtue for a guard.

ODE ON SCIENCE.

OH, heavenly born! in deepest dells If fairest Science ever dwells

Beneath the mossy cave;
Indulge the verdure of the woods;
With azure beauty gild the floods,
And flowery carpets lave;

For melancholy ever reigns
Delighted in the sylvan scenes

With scientific light;
While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales,
Though wrapt from mortal sight.
Yet, goddess, yet the way explore
With magic rites and heathen lore
Obstructed and depress'd;
Till wisdom give the sacred nine,
Untaught, not uninspired, to shine,
By reason's power redress'd.
When Solon and Lycurgus taught
To moralize the human thought

Of mad opinion's maze,
To erring zeal they gave new laws.
Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause
That blends congenial rays.
Bid bright Astrea gild the morn,
Or bid a hundred suns be born,
To hecatomb the year;
Without thy aid, in vain the poles,
In vain the zodiac system rolls,

In vain the lunar sphere.

Come, fairest princess of the throng,
Bring swift philosophy along

In metaphy sic dreams;
While raptur'd bards no more behold
A vernal age
purer gold

of

In Heliconian streams.

Drive thraldom with malignant hand, To curse some other destin'd land

By folly led astray: lerne bear on azure wing; Energic let her soar, and sing

Thy universal sway.

So, when Amphion bade the lyre
To more majestic sound aspire,

Behold the madding throng,
In wonder and oblivion drown'd,
To sculpture turn'd by magic sound
And petrifying song.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY,

MARCH 13, 1726.

THIS day, whate'er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with joy by me:
This day then let us not be told,
That you are sick, and I grown old;
Nor think on your approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills:
Tomorrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff.
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days;
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once some serious lines.

Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
Can look with joy on what is past.

Were future happiness and pain A mere contrivance of the brain; As atheists argue, to enticeAnd fit their proselytes for vice (The only comfort they propose, To have companions in their woes): Grant this the case; yet sure 'tis hard That virtue, styl'd its own reward, And by all sages understood To be the chief of human good, Should acting die; nor leave behind Some lasting pleasure in the mind, Which by remembrance will assuage Grief, sickness, poverty. and age, And strongly shoot a radiant dart To shine through life's declining part. Say, Stella, feel you no content, Reflecting on a life well spent ; Your skilful hand employ'd to save Despairing wretches from the grave; And then supporting with your store Those whom you dragg'd from death before! So Providence on mortals waits, Preserving what it first creates. Your generous boldness to defend An innocent and absent friend ;That courage which can make you just To merit humb'ed in the dust; The detestation you express For vice in all its glittering dress; That patience under tottering pain, Where stubborn stoics would complain; Must these like empty shadows pass, Or forms reflected from a glass? Or mere chimeras in the mind, That fly, and leave no mark behind? Does not the body thrive and grow By food of twenty years ago? And, had it not been still supply'd, It must a thousand times have died. Then who with reason can maintain That no effects of food remain ? And is not virtue in mankind The nutriment that feeds the mind; Upheld by each good action past, And still continued by the last? Then, who with reason can pretend That all effects of virtue end?

Believe me, Stella, when you show
That true contempt for things below,
Nor prize your life for other ends
Than merely to oblige your friends;
Your former actions claim their part,
And join to fortify your heart.
For virtue, in her dairy race,
Like Janus, bears a double face;

Looks back with joy where she has gone,
And therefore goes with courage on:
She at your sickly couch will wait,
And guide you to a better state.

O then, whatever Heaven intends,
Take pity on your pitying friends!
Nor let your ills affect your mind,
To fancy they car: be ukind.
Me, surely me, you ought to spare,
Who gladly would your suffering share;
Or give my scrap of life to you,
And think it far beneath your due;
You, to whose care so oft I owe
That I'm alive to tell you so.

Poor floating isle, tost on ill-fortune's waves,
Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves;
Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand;
Thou, fix'd of old, be now the moving land?
Although the metaphor be worn and stale,
Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail;
Let me suppose thee for a ship a-while,
And thus address thee in the sailor's style:

UNHAPPY ship, thou art return'd in vain ;
New waves shall drive thee to the deep again,
Look to thyself, and be no more the sport
Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port.
Lost are thy oars, that us'd thy course to guide,
Like faithful counsellors, on either side.
Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood
The single pillar for his country's good,
To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind,
Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind.
Your cable 's burst, and you must quickly feel
The waves impetuons enter at your keel.
Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke,
When the strong cords of union once are broke,
Torn by a sudden tempest is thy sail,
Expanded to invite a milder gale.

As when some writer in the public cause
His pep, to save a sinking nation, draws,
While all is calm, his arguments prevail;
The people's voice expands his paper-sail;
Till power, discharging all her stormy bags,
Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags.
The nation scar'd, the author doom'd to death,
Who fondly put his trust in popular breath.
A larger sacrifice in vain you vow;
There's not a power above will help you now :
A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects,
In vain from injur'd Heaven relief expects.

Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke. That thy descent is from the British oak;

Or, when your name and family you boast,
From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast.
Such was lerne's claim, as just as thine,
Her sons descended from the British line;
Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains
On French records for twenty long campaigns:
Yet, from an empress now a captive grown,
She sav'd Britannia's rights, and lost her own.
In ships decay'd no mariner confides,
Lur'd by the gilded stern and painted sides
Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight
.In the gay trappings of a birth-day night :
They on the gold brocades and sattins rav'd,
And quite forgot their country was enslav'd.
Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just,
Nor change thy course with every sudden gust;
Like supple patriots of the modern sort;
Who turn with every gale that blows from court,
Weary and sea-sick when in thee confin'd,
Now for thy safety cares distract my mind;
As those who long have stood the storms of state
Retire, yet still be moan their country's fate.
Beware; and when you hear the surges roar,
Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry shore.
They lie, alas ! too easy to be found ;
For thee alone they lie the island rotind;

VERSES

on the budden drYING-UP OF ST. PATRICK'S WELL NEAR TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN. 1726,

By holy zeal inspir'd, and led by fame,
To thee, once favourite Isle, with joy I came ;
What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hans
Had iny own native Italy : o'er-fun.
lerne, to the world's remotest parts,
Renown'd for valour, policy, ahd arts;

Hither from Colchos 2, with the fleecy ore;
Jason arriv'd two thousand years before.
Thee, happy island, Pallas call'd her own,
When haughty Britain was a land unknown 3;
From thee, with pride, the Caledonians trace
The glorious founder of their kingly race:
Thy martial sons, whom now they dare despise,
Did once their land subdue and civilize:
Their dress, their language, and the Scottish name,
Confess the soil from whence the victors came 4.

1 Italy was not properly the native place of St. Patrick, but the place of his education, and where he received his mission; and because he had his new birth there, hence, by poetical licence, and by scripture figure, our author calls that country his hative Italy. IRISH ED.

2 Orpheus, or the ancient author of the Greek poem on the Argonautic expedition, whoever he be, says, that Jason, who manned the ship Argos af Thessaly, sailed to Ireland. IRISH ED.

3 Tacitus, in the life of Julius Agricola, says, that the harbours of Ireland, on account of their com merce, were better known to the world than those of Britain. IRISH ED.

4 The argument here turns on, what the author of course took for granted, the present Scots being the descendants of Irish emigrants. This fact, however true, was not in Dr. Swift's time ascers