THE GIFT.* TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall I make My heart, a victim to thine eyes, Say, would the angry fair one prize A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, I'll give but not the full-blown rose, I'll give thee something yet unpaid, Not less sincere than civil, I'll give theeah! too charming maid! I'll give thee to the Devil! *Imitated from Grecourt, a witty French poet. 128 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. GOOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, A kind and gentle heart he had, And in that town a dog was found, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets The wond'ring neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, But soon a wonder came to light, The man recover'd of the bite- THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.* IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. LOGICIANS have but ill defined By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division, Homo est ratione preditum ; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; Is both a weak and erring creature ; *This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, as a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in almost every edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott has inserted it without any remark in his edition of Swift's Works. That instinct is a surer guide Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; And that brute beasts are far before 'em Deus est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbor prosecute, Bring action for assault and battery? Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O'er plains they ramble unconfined, No politics disturb their mind; They eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who's in or out at court: They never to the levee go To treat as dearest friend a foe; They never importune his grace, No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, * Sir Robert Walpole. And malice is his ruling passion: At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters, A NEW SIMILE. IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. LONG had I sought in vain to find |