How long I dwell upon a proem, Now, to describe the way I think, Now I begin to fret and blot, Something I schemed but quite forgot; The greatest dean in christendom. Sure this will do-'tis good for nought This line I peevishly erase, And choose another in its place; Again I try, again commence, But cannot well express the sense; The line's too short to hold my meaning; I'm cramp'd, and cannot bring the Dean in. I wish with all heart my you would not; Were Horace now alive he could not; And will you venture to pursue, I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more; Pray, reader, ponder well the sequel The more it burns the more it shines, I read this epigram again, 'Tis much too flat to fit the Dean. Then down I lay some scheme to dream on, Assisted by some friendly demon. I slept, and dream'd that I should meet So after all my care and rout, You see, dear Dean, my dream is out. AY AY AND NO. A TALE FROM DUBLIN. WRITTEN IN 1787. AT Dublin's high feast sat primate and dean, Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean: Quoth Hugh of Armagh, "The mob is grown bold." Ay, ay," quoth the dean, "the cause is old gold." "No, no," quoth the primate, "if causes we sift, This mischief arises from witty dean Swift." The smart one replied, "There's no wit in the case; And nothing of that ever troubled your grace. Though with your state sieve your own notions you split, A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit. It's matter of weight, and a mere money job; AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION.* THE furniture that best doth please St. Patrick's Dean, good sir, are these ; Is the glass in which I drink ; The shelves on which my books I keep; EPIGRAM.1 BEHOLD! a proof of Irish sense; Here Irish wit is seen! When nothing's left, that's worth defence, We build a magazine. ΤΟ * Ascribed to Dr. Swift, but possibly without foundation. N. + The Dean, in his lunacy, had some intervals of sense ; at which time his guardians or physicians took him out for the air. On one of these days, when they came to the Park, Swift remarked a new building, which he had never seen, and asked what it was designed for. To which Dr. Kingsbury answered, 66 That, Mr. TO DR. SWIFT, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.* WHILE I the godlike men of old, And turn the long-lived volumes o'er; I grieve that our degenerate days Are names unknown, and seldom heard. Can you complain, this sacred day, Shall rival Greece and Rome in fame." Mr. Dean, is the magazine for arms and powder, for the security of the city." "Oh! oh!" says the Dean, pulling out his pocketbook, "let me take an item of that. This is worth remarking : my tablets,' as Hamlet says, my tablets-memory, put down that!"-Which produced the above lines, said to be the last he ever wrote. N. * Written by Mrs. Pilkington, at a time when she wished to be introduced to the Dean. The verses being presented to him by Dr. Delany, he kindly accepted the compliment. N. ON |