Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue,
Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue.
Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays,
For such wool-gathering sonneteers as these?

Hence then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid.

Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town,
Thus act subservient to a poplin gown?
Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough
The under petticoat be made of stuff.
Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May,
When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay!
And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they?
In what weak colours would the plaid appear,
Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair!

The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff;
Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough?
Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed,

Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread,
Where rustling curtains call the curious eye,
And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky!
Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full;
And all this for the benefit of wool!

"But where," say they," shall we bestow these

weavers,

That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers ?"

The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate,
Demand their care, to make their webs complete :
These may they tend, their promises receive;
We cannot pay too much for what they give!

ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE,

HE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ.

BY DR DELANY.

'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't,

'Tis so large you may lodge a few friends with ease

in't.

You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't;

'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't,

And poor Lady Betty* has scarce room to dress in't; 'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; 'Tis so brittle 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun,

Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; 'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it,

And you're forced every year in some part to renew it;

'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little,

'Tis so staunch, and so crazy, so strong and so brittle,

* Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, Esq.-F.

1

'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold,
It is part of the new, and part of the old;
It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse—
I wish then, dear George, it were better or worse.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ.

[These verses were first published in the Whitehall Journal, with the following prefatory letter, in which the writer, with stupid malignity, represents a lively and humorous jeu d'esprit as a serious and ungrateful attack upon the hospitality of Gaulstown.

To Sir James Baker, Knight, Chief Journalist of Great Britain.

SIR,

The inclosed being handed about, privately here, in print, I thought the post which you now so worthily fill entitled you to a perusal of it.

It is a true and real Irish journal.

All men consent, here, that it was written by the famous Dr Celer, dean to the tutelary saint of this kingdom.

The malevolents amongst us cast invidious reflections on the Dean for writing this poem; and say that it was odd in him, after the kindest entertainment for some months together at Mr Rochford's house, who was Lord Chief Baron in this kingdom, in the last reign, to vanish away one morning sans ceremonie ;

and that it was ungrateful, after having sucked all the sweets of Gaulstown, to leave the following sting behind him.

If you give this packet a place in your Journal, you will oblige a vast number of your admirers in this kingdom, who are impatient to see the Dean's satire upon the hospitable Baron and the rest of his friends and messmates for almost a whole sum

mer.

I am,

Your constant reader and most humble servant,

DUBLIN, New-Year's Day, 1723.

PHILOXENUS.

From the foregoing absurd charge, the Dean condescended to vindicate himself, in a letter to Mr Cope, dated 9th October 1722.]

THALIA, tell in sober lays,

*

How George, Nim, †, Dan, ‡ Dean, § pass their

days;

And, should our Gaulstown's art grow fallow,
Yet Neget quis carmina Gallo?

Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I
Not Sheridan, but friend Delany.
Begin, my Muse. First from our bowers
We sally forth at different hours;

At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest,
Goes round the house to wake the rest;
At nine, grave Nim and George facetious.
Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;
At ten, my Lady comes and hectors,
And kisses George, and ends our lectures;

*Mr Rochfort.-F.

+ His brother, Mr John Rochfort; who was called Nimrod, from his great attachment to the chase.-F.

Rev. Daniel Jackson.-F.

§ Dr Swift.-F.

And when she has him by the neck fast,
Hauls him, and scolds us down to breakfast.
We squander there an hour or more,
And then all hands, boys, to the oar;
All, heteroclite Dan except,
Who neither time nor order kept,
But by peculiar whimsies drawn,
Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn;
O'ersees the work, or Dragon * rows,
Or mars a text, or mends his hose;
Or-but proceed we in our journal-
At two, or after, we return all :
From the four elements assembling,
Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling t
From airy garrets some descend,

Some from the lake's remotest end;
My lord and dean the fire forsake,
Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake:
The loiterers quake, no corner hides them.
And Lady Betty soundly chides them,
Now water's brought, and dinner's done :
With "Church and King" the ladies gone:

* A small boat so called.-F.

+ The Dean has been censured, on an idle supposition of this passage being an allusion to the day of judgment. So says Mr Faulkner, in corroboration of which I observe, that, in "Gulliveriana," the passage is printed in Italics, with an index placed opposite to call the attention. In the Whitehall Journal, the Editor refuses to believe that the piece is Swift's, "because so pious a person as the Dean could not possibly forget all respect and reverence for things sacred, as to turn the day of judgment so openly into ridicule, as the author of this lampoon most manifestly does in this burlesque piece "

Mr Rochfort's father was Lord Chief Baron of the exchequer in Ireland.-F.