Presto! be gone! with t'other hop EPITAPII, * ON GENERAL GORGES, AND LADY MEATH.↑ UNDER this stone lies Dick and Dolly. Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most. Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried : To live without both full three days he tried; But liked neither loss, and so quietly died. * Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath. F. † Dorothy, dowager of Edward, earl of Meath. She was mar ried to the general in 1716; and died April 10, 1728. Her husband survived her but two days. F. Dick left a pattern few will copy after: Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT. DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF, GRAVE Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass; * John Cuffe, of Desart, esq. married the general's eldest daughter. F. That That you, who so lately were writing of Drapiers, So offensive to every true protestant ear, How would it pollute their crosiers androchets ! DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD ON BALLYSPELLIN. * 1728. ALL you that would refine your blood, Though pox or itch your skins enrich With rubies past the telling, 'Twill clear your skin before you've been A month at Ballyspellin. If lady's cheek be green as leek When she comes from her dwelling, The kindling rose within it glows When she's at Ballyspellin. * A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, where the docto had been to drink the waters with a favourite lady. ANDERSON. VOL. XVII. D The The sooty brown, who comes from town, Then back she goes, to kill the beaux Our ladies are as fresh and fair We men submit as they think fit, By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms, Such desperate foes as dare oppose Cold water turns to fire, and burns, I know, because I fell in A stream, which came from one bright dame. Who drank at Ballyspellin. Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance, No politics, no subtle tricks, No man his country selling: We eat, we drink; we never think Of these at Ballyspellin. The The troubled mind, the puft with wind, Though dropsy fills you to the gills, Death throws no darts through all these parts, No sextons here are knelling: Come, judge and try, you'll never die, But live at Ballyspellin. Except you feel darts tipt with steel, Which here are every belle in: When from their eyes sweet ruin flies, We die at Ballyspellin. Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care, Within this ground we all sleep sound, There all you see, both he and she, |