Volume Ii Part 20 (1/2)
Though _Bruges_ and Ghent To _Monsieur_ we lent, With interest they shall repay 'em; While _Paris_ may sing, With her sorrowful king, _Nunc dimittis_ instead of _Te Deum_.
From this dream of success, They'll awaken, we guess, At the sound of great Marlborough's drums, They may think, if they will, Of Ahnanza still, But 'tis Blenheim wherever he comes.
O _Lewis[5]_ perplex'd, What general next!
Thou hast hitherto changed in vain; He has beat 'em all round, If no new one's found, He shall beat 'em over again.
We'll let _Tallard_ out, If he'll take t'other bout; And much he's improved, let me tell ye, With _Nottingham_ ale At every meal, And good beef and pudding in belly.
But as losers at play, Their dice throw away, While the winners do still win on; Let who will command, Thou hadst better disband, For, old Bully, thy doctors[6] are gone.
[Footnote 1: This ballad, upon the battle of Oudenarde, was very popular, and the tune is often referred to as that of ”Ye Commons and Peers.”--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 2: ”A Ballad upon a Wedding,” by Sir John Suckling, occasioned by the marriage of Roger Boyle, first Lord Orrery, with Lady Margaret Howard, daughter to the Earl of Suffolk. Suckling's Works, edit. Hazlitt, vol. i, p. 42.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: In the Dutch accounts of the battle of Oudenarde, it is said that the Dukes of Burgundy and Berry, with the Chevalier de St. George, viewed the action at a distance from the top of a steeple, and fled, when the fate of the day turned against the French. Vendosme commanded the French upon that occasion.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 4: The Electoral Prince of Hanover, afterwards George II, behaved with great spirit in the engagement, and charged, at the head of Bulau's dragoons, with great intrepidity. His horse was shot under him, and he then fought as stated in the text. Smollett's ”History of England,” ii, _125.--W. E. B._]
[Footnote 5: Louis XIV.]
[Footnote 6: A cant word for false dice.--_Scott_.]
THE GARDEN PLOT
1709
When Naboth's vineyard[1] look'd so fine, The king cried out, ”Would this were mine!”
And yet no reason could prevail To bring the owner to a sale.
Jezebel saw, with haughty pride, How Ahab grieved to be denied; And thus accosted him with scorn: ”Shall Naboth make a monarch mourn?
A king, and weep! The ground's your own; I'll vest the garden in the crown.”
With that she hatch'd a plot, and made Poor Naboth answer with his head; And when his harmless blood was spilt, The ground became his forfeit guilt.
[Footnote 1: This seems to allude to some oppressive procedure by the Earl of Wharton in relation to Swift's garden, which he called ”Naboth's Vineyard,” meaning a possession coveted by another person able to possess himself of it (i Kings, chap, xxi, verses 1-10). For some particulars of the garden, see ”Prose Works,” xi, 415.--_W. E. B._]
SID HAMET'S ROD
Poor Hall, renown'd for comely hair, Whose hands, perhaps, were not so fair, Yet had a Jezebel as near; Hall, of small scripture conversation, Yet, howe'er Hungerford's[1] quotation, By some strange accident had got The story of this garden-plot;--Wisely foresaw he might have reason To dread a modern bill of treason, If Jezebel should please to want His small addition to her grant: Therefore resolved, in humble sort, To begin first, and make his court; And, seeing nothing else would do, Gave a third part, to save the other two.
[Footnote 1: Probably John Hungerford, a member of the October Club.
”Prose Works,” v, 209.--_W. E. B._]
THE VIRTUES OF SID HAMET[1] THE MAGICIAN'S ROD. 1710[2]
The rod was but a harmless wand, While Moses held it in his hand; But, soon as e'er he laid it down, Twas a devouring serpent grown.
Our great magician, Hamet Sid, Reverses what the prophet did: His rod was honest English wood, That senseless in a corner stood, Till metamorphos'd by his grasp, It grew an all-devouring asp; Would hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist.
By the mere virtue of his fist: But, when he laid it down, as quick Resum'd the figure of a stick.
So, to her midnight feasts, the hag Rides on a broomstick for a nag, That, rais'd by magic of her breech, O'er sea and land conveys the witch; But with the morning dawn resumes The peaceful state of common brooms.
They tell us something strange and odd, About a certain magic rod,[3]