Volume I Part 54 (1/2)

1730

In ancient times, the wise were able In proper terms to write a fable: Their tales would always justly suit The characters of every brute.

The a.s.s was dull, the lion brave, The stag was swift, the fox a knave; The daw a thief, the ape a droll, The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: A pigeon would, if shown by aesop, Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up.

Far otherwise a great divine Has learnt his fables to refine; He jumbles men and birds together, As if they all were of a feather: You see him first the Peac.o.c.k bring, Against all rules, to be a king; That in his tail he wore his eyes, By which he grew both rich and wise.

Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, A Peac.o.c.k chose for flight and voice; Did ever mortal see a peac.o.c.k Attempt a flight above a hayc.o.c.k?

And for his singing, doctor, you know Himself complain'd of it to Juno.

He squalls in such a h.e.l.lish noise, He frightens all the village boys.

This Peac.o.c.k kept a standing force, In regiments of foot and horse: Had statesmen too of every kind, Who waited on his eyes behind; And this was thought the highest post; For, rule the rump, you rule the roast.

The doctor names but one at present, And he of all birds was a Pheasant.

This Pheasant was a man of wit, Could read all books were ever writ; And, when among companions privy, Could quote you Cicero and Livy.

Birds, as he says, and I allow, Were scholars then, as we are now; Could read all volumes up to folios, And feed on frica.s.sees and olios: This Pheasant, by the Peac.o.c.k's will, Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; And, as he wander'd in his park, He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; Was taken with his person outward, So prettily he pick'd a cow-t--d: Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, And in his palace fed and taught him.

The moral of the tale is pleasant, Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: A lark he is, and such a lark As never came from Noah's ark: And though he had no other notion, But building, planning, and devotion; Though 'tis a maxim you must know, ”Who does no ill can have no foe;”

Yet how can I express in words The strange stupidity of birds?

This Lark was hated in the wood, Because he did his brethren good.

At last the Nightingale comes in, To hold the doctor by the chin: We all can find out what he means, The worst of disaffected deans: Whose wit at best was next to none, And now that little next is gone; Against the court is always blabbing, And calls the senate-house a cabin; So dull, that but for spleen and spite, We ne'er should know that he could write Who thinks the nation always err'd, Because himself is not preferr'd; His heart is through his libel seen, Nor could his malice spare the queen; Who, had she known his vile behaviour, Would ne'er have shown him so much favour.

A n.o.ble lord[1] has told his pranks, And well deserves the nation's thanks.

O! would the senate deign to show Resentment on this public foe, Our Nightingale might fit a cage; There let him starve, and vent his rage: Or would they but in fetters bind This enemy of human kind!

Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, Thou champion for the commonweal: Nor on a theme like this repine, For once to wet thy pen divine: Bestow that libeller a lash, Who daily vends seditious trash: Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, But in the praise of virtue is dumb: That scribbler lash, who neither knows The turn of verse, nor style of prose; Whose malice, for the worst of ends, Would have us lose our English friends:[3]

Who never had one public thought, Nor ever gave the poor a groat.

One clincher more, and I have done, I end my labours with a pun.

Jove send this Nightingale may fall, Who spends his day and night in gall!

So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; I see the greatest owls in you That ever screech'd, or ever flew.

[Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.--_F._]

DEAN SMEDLEY'S PEt.i.tION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1]

Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.--HOR.

_Epist._, I, ii, 47.

It was, my lord, the dexterous s.h.i.+ft Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, With silver verge, and surplice clean, Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, In looser rhyme to beg a place.

A place he got, yclept a stall, And eke a thousand pounds withal; And were he less a witty writer, He might as well have got a mitre.

Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, In humble lays my thanks to offer, Approach your grace with grateful heart, My thanks and verse both void of art, Content with what your bounty gave, No larger income do I crave: Rejoicing that, in better times, Grafton requires my loyal lines.

Proud! while my patron is polite, I likewise to the patriot write!

Proud! that at once I can commend King George's and the Muses' friend!

Endear'd to Britain; and to thee (Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) Endear'd by twice three anxious years, Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; By love, by wisdom, and by skill; For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will.

But where shall Smedley make his nest, And lay his wandering head to rest?

Where shall he find a decent house, To treat his friends and cheer his spouse?