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So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say
he is my sweetheart, Because he's always in my chamber, and I always
take his part. So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware,
out I blunder'd, " Parson,” said I, " can you cast a nativity, when.
a body's plunder'd?" (Now you must know, he hates to be call’d Parson,
like the devil !) “ Truly,” says he, “ Mrs Nab, it might become
you to be more civil ; If your money be gone, as a learned Divine
d'ye see, You are no text for my handling ; so take that
from me: I was never taken for a Conjurer before, I'd have « Lord !” said I,“ don't be angry, I am sure I
never thought you so ; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a
Parson's wife; I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as
who should say, « Now you may go hang yourself for me !" and so
went away, Well : I thought I should have swoon'd. “ Lord!"
said I, “what shall I do? I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love
you to know."
* Dr Bolton, one of the chaplains.-FAULKNER.
« don't cry;
Then my lord call’d me: “Harry, t” said my Lord, I'll give you something toward thy loss”: “ And,”
says my lady, “ so will I.” Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain
won't come to? For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies,)
I must petition you. The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your
Excellencies protection, And that I may have a share in next Sunday's col
lection, And, over and above, that I
have lencies letter, With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, in
stead of him a better: And then your poor petitioner, both night and
day, Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade,) as in duty
bound, shall ever pray.
* A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs Hare ris.-H.
A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC.
WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699.
My Lord, * to find out who must deal,
Delivers cards about,
To find the doctor out.
And seem'd to knit his brow:
But h' thinks upon Jack How. t Ny lady, though she is no player,
Some bungling partner takes, And, wedg'd in corner of a chair,
Takes snuff, and holds the stakes. Dame Floyd-looks-out-in grave suspense
For pair royals and sequents;
The castle seldom frequents.
I'd won it on my word,
And could pick up a third.
On Sundays to be fine in,
* The Earl of Berkeley.-H. + Paymaster to the army.-H. #Mrs Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.
And, if she can but win a crown,
'Twill just new dye the lining. « With these is parson Swift, *
« Not knowing how to spend his time, « Does make a wretched shift,
“ To deafen them with puns and rhyme.”.
TO THE TUNE OF, THE CUT-PURSE.
WRITTEN IN AUGUST 1702.
A friar would need show his talent in Latin ; But was sorely put to't in the midst of a verse, Because he could find no word to come pat in:
Then all in the place
He left a void space,
* Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Lady Betty Germain. See the next poem.
+ Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which gavę occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit hand, as if a third person had done it.-Swift.
The Cut-purse is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad. singer, in Ben Jonson's Bartholomew Fair. The tune seems to have been very popular, and the words the subject of many paro. dies. See one upon an adventure of Jonathan Wild, in Pope and Swift's Miscellanies, Vol. XIII. p. 365.
When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle. Cho. Let censuring critics then think what they
list on't; Who would not write verses with such an as
For he wisely considered it must be a sprite; That he came through the keyhole, or in at the
casement; And it needs must be one that could both read
Yet he did not know
If it were friend or foe, Or whether it came from above or below: Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf, For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself.
CHO. Let censuring, &c.
In making a ballad, but was at a stand :
from invisible hand. Then, good Doctor Swift,
Pay thanks for the gift, For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; And, though soine malicious young spirit did do't, You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. ,
CHO. Let censuring, &c,