I know the gander always goes

With a quill stuck across his nose;
So your eternal pen is still

Or in your claw, or in

your bill.

But whether you can tread or hatch,
I've something else to do than watch.
As for you're writing I am dead,

I leave it for the second head.

Deanry House, Oct. 27, 1718.

I CAN'T but wonder, Mr. Dean,
To see you live, so often slain.
My arrows fly and fly in vain,
But still I try and try again.
I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein;

Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain.
Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean;

I will not tell, because it's plain,

Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane;
If so, from pen and ink refrain.
Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain
For her and you; your life's a scene
Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane,
Enough to crack the strongest brain,
Now to conclude, I do remain,

Your honest friend,

TOM SHERIDAN,

POOR

POOR Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, Tho' I dare you to more than quadruple alliance. You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer;

Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an an

swer?

If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye, And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each

Fury,

I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk;
I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk:
Nay, further, the moment you're free from your
scalding,

I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.

A PROLOGUE to a Play, performed at Mr. Sheridan's School, spoke by one of the Scholars.

AS in a silent night a lonely swain,
Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain,
To heaven around directs his wandering eyes,
And
look finds out a new surprise;
every
So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view
Our lower sphere made more serene by you.
O could such light in my dark bosom shine,
What life, what vigour, should adorn each line!
Beauty and Virtue should be all my theme,
And Venus brighten my poetic flame.
The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one,
Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun;

Majestic light his feeble art defies,

And for presuming, robs him of his eyes.
Then blame your power, that my inferior lays
Sink far below your too exalted praise :
Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain;
No, we're sincere,—to flatter you were vain.
You spurn at fine encomiums misapply'd,
And all perfections but your beauties hide.
Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind,
Nor frown on those you see so well inclin'd

To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and

then

Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.

THE EPILOGUE.*

NOW all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell, Have we not play'd our parts extremely well? We think we did, but if you do complain, We're all content to act the play again: 'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most, And time well spent in school cannot be lost. But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above? We guess'd long since you all desired to move : But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir, Who does not take up Plautus first, and construe. Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play; He who does not, i'faith he's like to stay. Tho' this new method may provoke your laughter, To act plays first, and understand them after;

* P. 371.

+ The author appears to have intended that the vulgar pronunciation, conster, should be here adopted.

We

We do not care, for we will have our humour, And will try you, and you, and you, Sir, and one or two more.

Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge; How much they've read, I'll leave you all to judge.

THE SONG. *

MY time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent,
When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went;
For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest;
Was ever a toper so merrily blest?

But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,
Because I must go to my wife back to town;
To the fondling and toying of " honey" and " dear,"
And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer,
My daughter I ever was pleased to see
Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee:
My wife too was pleas'd, and to the child said,
Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your
head:
But now out of humour, I with a sour look,
Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book;
And I'll give her another; for why should she play,
Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends are away.
Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become,

That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plumb?
Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile,
While we sit carousing and drinking the while?
Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done,
Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gonę.
Then since it is so, bring me here a supply;
Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.

* Whimsical Medley, p. 333,

ΤΟ

TO THE REV. JOHN BRANDRETH,

DEAN OF EMLY

SIR,

you

IF you are not an excellent philosopher, I allow personate one perfectly well; and if you believe yourself, I heartily envy you; for I never yet saw in Ireland a spot of earth two feet wide, that had not,

in

* This gentleman was also rector of Kilmore, in the diocese of Armagh. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took his first degree in 1717, and that of Master of Arts in 1721. He was therefore probably born in 1698. He died in 1764. Mr. Brandreth had been tutor to Charles Earl of Middlesex, eldest son of Lionel Duke of Dorset ; and very soon after that nobleman was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, (June 1730,) he appears to have obtained from his Grace the preferments in the church, which he held till he died. See a letter from Archbishop Boulter to the Duke of Dorset, dated Dublin, February 20, 1730-31: "On the 8th instant Mr. Brandreth brought me the honour of your Grace's of the 18th past. We have since dispatched his instruments, agreeably to your Grace's directions. I. found he did not want a faculty to hold the TWO PREFERMENTS; else I was ready to have granted one, as I shall be to give him my favour and protection on all occasions. He seems to be a sensible gentleman, and very well behaved; and I doubt not will give ge'neral satisfaction here." Letters of his Excellency Hugh Boulter, D.D. Lord Primate of Ireland, 8vo. 1770. Lady Elizabeth Ger maine, who, we find, had recommended Dean Brandreth to Swift, doubtless became acquainted with him in the family of the Duke of Dorset, with whom she was very intimate.

After the death of the Dean of Emly, this letter was found among his papers by the Rev. Mr. Field, his curate at Kilmore, whom he appointed his executor; and by his permission a copy of it was taken by a gentleman of that parish, in the hands of whose widow it has remained for near thirty years. It was obligingly communicated to us by the Reverend and learned Dr. Richardson,

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