§ 153. Written in a Lady's Ivory Table
Book, 1699. SWIFT.
PERUSE my leaves through every part,
And think thou seest my owner's heart,
Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as senseless, and as light;
Expos'd to every coxcomb's eyes,
But hid with caution from the wise.
Here you may read, "Dear, charming saint!"
Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:"
Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth ;"
There, in her own, "For an el breth :"
Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!"
There, "A safe way to use perfume:"
Here, a page fill'd with billet-doux,
On t' other side, "Laid out for shoes."
"Madam, I die without your grace."
"Item, for half a yard of lace."
Who that had wit would place it here,
For every peeping fop to jeer?
In pow'r of spittle and a clout,
Whene'er he please to blot it out:
And then, to heighten the disgrace,
Clap his own nonsense in the place.
Whoe'er expects to hold his part
In such a book, and such a heart,
If he be wealthy, and a fool,
Is in all points the fittest tool;
Of whom it may be justly said,
He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.
154. On the little House by the Church-yard
of Castlenock. 1710. SWIFT.
WHOEVER pleaseth to inquire
Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
The gray old fellow Poet Joe*
The philosophic cause will show.
Once on a time a western blast,
At least twelve inches overcast,
Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all,
Which came with a prodigious fall!
And, tumbling topsy-turvy round,
Lit with its bottom on the ground;
For, by the laws of gravitation,
It fell into its proper station.
This is a little strutting pile
You see just by the church-yard stile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the steeple got a shock;
From whence the neighboring farmer calls
The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.t
The vicar once a week creeps in,
Sits with his knee up to his chin;
Here cons his notes, and takes a whet,
Till the small ragged flock is met.
A traveller, who by did pass,
Observ'd the roof behind the grass;
On tip-toe stood, and rear'd his snout,
And saw the parson creeping out;
Was much surpris'd to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low.
A school-boy ran unto 't, and thought The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
Mr. Beaumont, of Trim.
† Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forc'd for safety to alight;
And, stepping o'er the fabric-roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof.
Warburton took it in his noddle,
This building was design'd a model
Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.
Then Mrs. Johnson|| gave her verdict,
And every one was pleas'd that heard it:
"All that you make this stir about,
Is but a still which wants a spout."
The Reverend Dr. Raymond guess'd
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.
The doctor's family came by,
And little miss began to cry,
"Give me that house in my own hand!"
Then madam bade the chariot stand;
Call'd to the clerk in manner mild,
"Pray, reach that thing here to the child:
That thing, I mean, among the kale:
And here's to buy a pot of ale."
The clerk said to her, in a heat,
"What! sell my master's country-seat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not sell it for a crown."
"Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother;
In half an hour thou'lt make another."
Says Nancy, "I can make for miss
A finer house ten times than this;
The Dean will give me willow-sticks,
And Joe, my apron-full of bricks."
$155. A true and faithful Inventory of the
Goods belonging to Dr. Swift, Vicar of La-
racor, upon lending his House to the Bishop
of Meath till his Palace was rebuilt. SWIFT.
AN oaken, broken elbow-chair;
A caudle-cup, without an ear;
A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that's crack'd across, around
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;
A wig, with hanging quite grown gray;
A curtain, worn to half a stripe;
A pair of bellows, without pipe;
A dish, which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle bottom, wooden platter,
One is for meal and one for water;
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;
A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all:
And thus his household goods you have all
These to your Lordship, as a friend,
Till you have built, I freely lend:
t Dr Swift's curate at Laracor.
Stella.
Minister of Trim.
The waiting-woman.
They'll serve your Lordship for a shift; Why not, as well as Doctor Swift?
§ 156. An Elegy on the Death of Demar the Usurer, who died the 6th of July, 1720.
SWIFT. KNOW all men by these presents, Death the
And if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe that four in five Will think his better half alive. 158. To Mrs. Houghton, of Bormount, upon praising her Husband to Dr. Swift.
You always are making a god of your spouse, But this neither reason nor conscience allows: Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, Your argument's weak, and so you will find; And you adore him because he adores you: For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. RIDDLES,
By mortgage hath secur'd the corpse of Demar;
Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound
Redeem him from his prison under ground.
His heirs might well, of all his wealth possess'd,
Bestow to bury him one iron chest.
Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know
His faithful steward 's in the shades below.
He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare By DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS: WRIT-
He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk;
And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms.
So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf,
He us'd them full as kindly as himself.
Where'er he went he never saw his betters;
Lords, knights, and squires, were all his hum-
ble debtors;
And under hand and seal the Irish nation
Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.
He that could once have half a kingdom
bought,
In half a minute is not worth a groat.
His coffers from the coffin could not save,
Nor all his interest keep him from the grave.
A golden monument could not be right,
because we wish the earth upon him light.
O London tavern!* thou hast lost a friend,
Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing
spend:
He touch'd the pence, when others touch'd the pot;
[shot. The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the Old as he was, no vulgar known disease On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; But, as he weigh'd his gold, grim Death in spite [light; Cast in his dart, which made three moidores And as he saw his darling money fail, Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." He who so long was current, 'twould be strange If he should now be cried down since his change.
The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;
Alas! the sexton is thy banker now!
A dismal banker must that banker be,
Who gives no bills but of mortality.
157. Epitaph on a Miser. SwIFT.
BENEATH this verdant hillock lies
Demar, the wealthy and the wise.
His heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his carcass in a chest ;
The very chest in which, they say,
His other self, his money, lay.
* A tavern in Dublin where Demar kept his office. †These four lines were written by Stella.
TEN IN, OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724. 159. On a Pen.
IN youth exalted high in air,
Or bathing in the waters fair,
Nature to form me took delight,
And clad my body all in white,
My person tall, and slender waist,
On either side with fringes grac'd;
Till me that tyrant man espied,
And dragg'd me from my mother's side.
No wonder now I look so thin;
The tyrant stripp'd me to the skin;
My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropp'd;
At head and foot my body lopp'd:
And then, with heart more hard than stone,
He pick'd my marrow from the bone.
To vex me more, he took a freak
To slit my tongue, and make me speak:
But that which wonderful appears,
I speak to eyes, and not to ears.
He oft employs me in disguise,
And makes me tell a thousand lies:
To me he chiefly gives in trust
To please his malice or his lust:
From me no secret he can hide:
I see his vanity and pride:
And my delight is to expose
His follies to his greatest foes.
All languages I can command,
Yet not a word I understand.
Without my aid, the best divine
In learning would not know a line
The lawyer must forget his pleading;
The scholar could not show his reading.
Nay, man, my master, is my slave;
I give command to kill or save;
Can grant ten thousand pounds a year,
And make a beggar's brat a peer.
But while I thus my life relate,
I only hasten on my fate.
My tongue is black, my mouth is furr d,
I hardly now can force a word.
I die unpitied and forgot,
And on some dunghill left to rot.
$160. On Gold.
ALL-RULING tyrant of the earth,
To vilest slaves I owe my birth.
How is the greatest monarch bless'd,
When in my gaudy liv'ry dress'd!
No haughty nymph has pow'r to run
From me, or my embraces shun.
Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame,
My constancy is still the same.
The favourite messenger of Jove,
The Lemnian god, consulting, strove
To make me glorious to the sight
Of mortals, and the gods' delight.
Soon would their altars' flame expire
If I refus'd to lend them fire.
I'm up and down, and round about, Yet all the world can't find me out. Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure, They never yet could find my measure. I'm found almost in ev'ry garden, Nay, in the compass of a farthing. There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill, Can move an inch, except I will.
162. On the Five Senses.
ALL of us in one you'll find,
Brethren of a wondrous kind;
Yet, among us all, no brother
Knows one tittle of the other.
We in frequent councils are,
And our marks of things declare;
Where, to us unknown, a clerk
Sits, and takes them in the dark.
He's the register of all
In our ken, both great and small;
By us forms his laws and rules;
He's our master, we his tools;
Yet we can, with greatest ease,
Turn and wind him where we please.
One of us alone can sleep,
Yet no watch the rest will keep;
But, the moment that he closes,
Ev'ry brother else reposes.
If wine 's bought, or victuals dress'd,
One enjoys them for the rest.
Pierce us all with wounding steel,
One for all of us will feel.
Though ten thousand cannons roar,
Add to them ten thousand more,
Yet but one of us is found
Who regards the dreadful sound.
Do what is not fit to tell,
There's but one of us can smell.
$163. On an Echo.
NEVER sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak : The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue : Nought but one thing can confound me, Many voices joining round me; Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, Like the laborers of Babel.
Now I am a dog or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the love-sick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice;
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out;
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I'm vex'd, can't keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear.
Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit 's out of date;
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.
§ 164. On a Shadow in a Glass.
By something form'd, I nothing am,
Yet every thing that you can name;
In no place have I ever been,
Yet ev'ry where I may be seen;
In all things false, yet always true,
I'm still the same, but ever new.
Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear,
Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,
Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear.
All shapes and features I can boast,
No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost
All colours, without paint, put on,
And change like the chameleon.
Swiftly I come and enter there
Where not a chink lets in the air;
Like thought, I'm in a moment gone
Nor can I ever be alone;
All things on earth I imitate
Faster than Nature can create;
Sometimes imperial robes I wear,
Anon in beggar's rags appear;
A giant now, and straight an elf,
I'm ev'ry one, but ne'er myself;
Ne'er sad, I mourn; ne'er glad, rejoice,
I move my lips, but want a voice;
I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die:
Then pr'ythee tell me, what am I?
§ 165. On Time.
EVER eating, never cloying,
All devouring, all destroying;
Never finding full repast,
Till I eat the world at last.
166. On the Vowels.
WE are little airy creatures,
All of diff'rent voice and features:
One of us in glass is set,
One of us you'll find in jet;
T' other you may see in tin,
And the fourth a box within;
If the fifth you should pursue,
It can never fly from you.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
FROM heaven I fall, though from earth I be- To think how monie counsels sweet,
No lady alive can shew such a skin.
I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,
But heavy and dark when you squeeze me to-
gether.
Though candor and truth in my aspect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
Though so much of heaven appears in my
The foulest impressions I easily take. My parent and I produce one another;
How monie lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, souter Johnny,
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony.
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;
The mother the daughter, the daughter the And aye the ale was growing better:
BEGOTTEN, and born, and dying, with noise, The terror of women, and pleasure of boys;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle,
Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confin'd.
For silver and gold I don't trouble my head,
But all I delight in is pieces of lead;
Except when I trade with a ship or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark,
No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
The moment I get one, my soul's all afire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades of treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.
169. Tam o' Shanter. A Tale. BURNS.
Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke.
GAWIN DOUGLAS.
WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame;
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gath'ring her brows like gath'ring storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses.)
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethring, blustering, drunken blellum;
That, frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as long as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy'd, that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
VOL. VI. Nos. 91 & 92.
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or, like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever:
Or, like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or, like the rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishing amid the storm.—
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key
That dreary hour, he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd;
That night, a child might understand,
The De'il had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,-
A better never lifted leg,-
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane;
And through the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars through the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the Devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na De'il's a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl,
Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And, by some devilish cantrip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;
Five cimeters, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew ;
The dancers quick and quicker flew ;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleckit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie
There was ae winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore!
For monie a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd monie a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and beer,
And kept the country-side in fear,)
Her cutty-sark o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude though sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches)
Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r!
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jad she was and strang,)
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd, and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant a' was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin.
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a wofu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie press'd,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought aff her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin❜d,
Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
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