« EelmineJätka »
OC tumulata jacet proles Lenæa fepulchro,
Immortale genus, nec peritura jacet ;
Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo;
Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY; A great Bottle of Wine, long buried, being that Day dug up. 1722-3.
RESOLV'D my annual verfe to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely fat me down to think:
bit my nails, and scratch'd my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled :
Or, if with more than usual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It cost me lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curfe,
Long thinking made my fancy worse.
Forfaken by th' infpiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo's shrine :
I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unfung to-day;
How I fhould hide my head for fhrame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sheridan the rogue would fneer,
And fwear it does not always follow,
That femel 'n anno ridet Apollo.
I have affur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phoebus infpir'd me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry fince,
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eufden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I ask for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at ftake:
And Stella will be fung, while I
Can only be a ftander-by.
Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this answer to a tittle.
Though you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hints, and you shall use all 'em,·
You yearly fing as the grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to fay truth, fuch dulness reigns,
Through the whole fet of Irish deans,
I'm daily ftunn'd with such a medley,
Dean W, Dean D-, and Dean Smedley,
That, let what Dean foever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;
And, if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pass'd among the croud...
But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;
For fhe, as priestefs, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her defcribe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar on the ground:
A fpade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.
Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated towards the skies !
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth confpire;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Pour'd in a strong infpiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the fpacious womb contains
A fovereign medicine for the brains.
You'll find it foon, if fate confents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archys arm'd with fpades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.
From thence a plenteous draught infufe,,
And boldly then invoke the Muse
(But first let Robert, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees):
The Mufe will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year.
IS Grace! impoffible! what dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And fo inglorious, after all!
Well, fince he's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump muft wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to fleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed fo old
As by the news-papers we 're told?
Threefcore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in confcience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the fnuff;
And that's the reafon, fome folks think,
He left behind fo great a fk.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widow's fighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont at fuch times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may fay,
He had thofe honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he dy'd.
Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate.
Let Pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing's a Duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he Iprung.
IT was, my lord, the dextrous shift
Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now St. Patrick's faucy dean,
With filver verge and furplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace,
In loofer rhyme to beg a place.
A place he got, yclept a fall,
And eke a thousand pounds withal;
And, were he a lefs witty writer,
He might as well have got a mitre.
Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble lays, my thanks to offer,