O! if I could, how I would maul Must I be every moment chid With *Skynnebonia, Snipe, and Lean? Of this insulting tyrant Dean! ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL, FRAIL glass thou bear'st that name as well as I; ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT. ME only chance can kill; thou, frailer creature, May'st die, like me, by chance; but must by nature. ON CUTTING DOWN THE OLD THORN AT MARKET-HILL. AT Market-Hill, as well appears, The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. F. Hither came every village maid, And on the boughs her garland hung; * Sir Archibald, that valorous knight, (Sir Archibald, whose favourite name But time with iron teeth, I ween, Has canker'd all its branches round; Its head reclining toward the ground. This aged, sickly, sapless thorn, Dame Nature, when she saw the blow, And mother Tellus trembled so, She scarce recover'd in a week. Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland. F. + Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander Earl of Stirling, who were both friends to Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry. F. The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd, The magpie, lighting on the stock, The owl foresaw, in pensive mood, Last trolled forth the gentle swine, All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump. The nymph who dwells in every tree, Thus, when the gentle Spina found But from the root a dismal groan First issuing struck the murderer's ears; And, in a shrill revengeful tone, This prophecy he trembling hears; "Thou chief contriver of my fall, Relentless Dean, to mischief born; My kindred oft thine hide shall gall, Thy gown and cassock oft be torn. And thy confederate dame, who brags And wound her legs with every brier. Nor thou, Lord Arthur,* shalt escape; Against that assassin in crape; Yet thou could'st tamely see me slain; Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow, Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse; Since you could see me treated so (An old retainer to your house :) May that fell Dean, by whose command Not leave a thistle on thy land; Then who will own thee for a Scot? Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues, And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate, * Sir Arthur Acheson. F. When thou, suspended high in air, (For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,) EPITAPH, IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE. HERE lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool, Poor Dick, alas! is dead and What signifies to cry? gone, Dickies enough are still behind, To laugh at by and by. Buried June 18, 1728, aged 63. MY LADY'S* LAMENTATION AND COM PLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN. JULY 23, 1728. SURE never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy, So teas'd day and night. By a Dean and a Knight. To punish my sins, #Lady Acheson, F. |