The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 48

[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by his opposition to Wood's coinage.

BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL

I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood, But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good; Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears, Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.

In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right, And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't.

And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason.

His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore, Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more.

Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross, For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross.

To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win, He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin.

Why, there's my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows, He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows.

"A bishop," says the n.o.ble squire, "I hate the very name, To have two thousand pounds a-year--O 'tis a burning shame!

Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!"

And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive: Now from his lords.h.i.+p's grace I hold a little piece of ground, And all the rent I pay is scarce five s.h.i.+llings in the pound.

Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo, Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go."

He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks, For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box.

And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace, Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face: Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain; He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain.

"Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend, I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend, Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can; I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man."

Then said his lords.h.i.+p with a smile, "I must have lawful cash, I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's tras.h.!.+"

"G.o.d bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher, Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire."

To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke, Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk.

And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found, His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound; "Why, sirrah," said the n.o.ble squire, "how dare you see my face, Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace."

And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack, That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back.

Then G.o.d preserve his lords.h.i.+p's grace, and make him live as long As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.

TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN

A POEM

Serus in coelum redeas, diuque Laetus intersis populo.--HOR., _Carm._ I, ii, 45.

Great, good, and just, was once applied To one who for his country died;[l]

To one who lives in its defence, We speak it in a happier sense.

O may the fates thy life prolong!

Our country then can dread no wrong: In thy great care we place our trust, Because thou'rt great, and good, and just: Thy breast unshaken can oppose Our private and our public foes: The latent wiles, and tricks of state, Your wisdom can with ease defeat.

When power in all its pomp appears, It falls before thy rev'rend years, And willingly resigns its place To something n.o.bler in thy face.

When once the fierce pursuing Gaul Had drawn his sword for Marius' fall, The G.o.dlike hero with a frown Struck all his rage and malice down; Then how can we dread William Wood, If by thy presence he's withstood?

Where wisdom stands to keep the field, In vain he brings his brazen s.h.i.+eld; Though like the sibyl's priest he comes, With furious din of brazen drums The force of thy superior voice Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.

[Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose:

"Great, good, and just! could I but rate My griefs to thy too rigid fate, I'd weep the world in such a strain As it should deluge once again; But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes, I'll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds, And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds."

See Napier's "Montrose and the Covenanters," i, 520.--_W. E. B._]

TO THE CITIZENS[1]

And shall the Patriot who maintain'd your cause, From future ages only meet applause?

Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid, By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd?

Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside, These wretches had been d.a.m.n'd for parricide.

Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat The sure destruction of an injured state, Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd, Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd; Inspired with love of glorious liberty, Do wonders to preserve his country free; He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey, Each urging in his rage the deadly dart, Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart; Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief, And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief, But, if the people he preserved should cry, He went too far, and he deserved to--die, Would not your soul such treachery detest, And indignation boil within your breast, Would not you wish that wretched state preserved, To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?

If, then, oppression has not quite subdued At once your prudence and your grat.i.tude, If you yourselves conspire not your undoing, And don't deserve, and won't draw down your ruin, If yet to virtue you have some pretence, If yet ye are not lost to common sense, a.s.sist your patriot in your own defence; That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise, And know that to be brave is to be wise: Think how he struggled for your liberty, And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free.

M. B.

[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments, while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly their own.--_Scott._]

PUNCH'S PEt.i.tION TO THE LADIES

----Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, Auri sacra fames!----VIRG., _Aen._, iii.

This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton, when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.--_Scott._ See vol. i, p. 169.--_W. E. B._

Fair ones who do all hearts command, And gently sway with fan in hand Your favourite--Punch a suppliant falls, And humbly for a.s.sistance calls; He humbly calls and begs you'll stop The gothic rage of Vander Hop, Wh'invades without pretence and right, Or any law but that of might, Our Pigmy land--and treats our kings Like paltry idle wooden things; Has beat our dancers out of doors, And call'd our chastest virgins wh.o.r.es; He has not left our Queen a rag on, Has forced away our George and Dragon, Has broke our wires, nor was he civil To Doctor Faustus nor the devil; E'en us he hurried with full rage, Most hoa.r.s.ely squalling off the stage; And faith our fright was very great To see a minister of state, Arm'd with power and fury come To force us from our little home-- We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason, An accusation of high-treason; Till, starting up, says Banamiere, "Treason, my friends, we need not fear, For 'gainst the Bra.s.s we used no power, Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1]

Nor did we show the least affection To Rochford or the Meath election; Nor did we sing,--'Machugh he means.'"

"You villain, I'll dash out your brains, 'Tis no affair of state which brings Me here--or business of the King's; I'm come to seize you all as debtors, And bind you fast in iron fetters, From sight of every friend in town, Till fifty pound's to me paid down."

--"Fifty!" quoth I, "a devilish sum; But stay till the bra.s.s farthings come, Then we shall all be rich as Jews, From Castle down to lowest stews; That sum shall to you then be told, Though now we cannot furnish gold."

Quoth he, "thou vile mis-shapen beast, Thou knave, am I become thy jest; And dost thou think that I am come To carry nought but farthings home!

Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves, Farthings are made for Irish slaves; No bra.s.s for me, it must be gold, Or fifty pounds in silver told, That can by any means obtain Freedom for thee and for thy train."

"Votre tres humble serviteur, I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure, But from the bottom of my belly, I do in sober sadness tell you, I thought it was good reasoning, For us fict.i.tious men to bring Bra.s.s counters made by William Wood Intrinsic as we flesh and blood; Then since we are but mimic men, Pray let us pay in mimic coin."

Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate, And couldst for ever hold debate; But think'st thou I have nought to do But to stand prating thus with you?

Therefore to stop your noisy parly, I do at once a.s.sure you fairly, That not a puppet of you all Shall stir a step without this wall, Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum, Until you pay the foresaid sum."

Then marching off with swiftest race To write dispatches for his grace, The revel-master left the room, And us condemn'd to fatal doom.

Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace, Or if my jokes did ever please, Use all your interest with your sec,[2]

(They say he's at the ladies' beck,) And though he thinks as much of gold As ever Midas[3] did of old: Your charms I'm sure can never fail, Your eyes must influence, must prevail; At your command he'll set us free, Let us to you owe liberty.

Get us a license now to play, And we'll in duty ever pray.

[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure pa.s.sed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant, who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, _rythmi gratia.--Scott._]

[Footnote 3: See Ovid, "Metam." xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.--_W. E. B._]