Volume Ii Part 59 (2/2)

Thus, a lean beast beneath a load (A beast of Irish breed) Will, in a tedious dirty road, Outgo the prancing steed.

You knock him down and down in vain, And lay him flat before ye, For soon as he gets up again, He'll strut, and cry, Victoria!

At every stroke of mine, he fell, 'Tis true he roar'd and cried; But his impenetrable sh.e.l.l Could feel no harm beside.

The tortoise thus, with motion slow, Will clamber up a wall; Yet, senseless to the hardest blow, Gets nothing but a fall.

Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I, Attack his pericrany?

And, since it is in vain to try, We'll send him to Delany.

POSTSCRIPT

Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry, Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery, But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says, He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses, For omitting the first (where I make a comparison, With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison) Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise.

So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal?

And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit, (For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate, The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target; Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could, But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood; While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him, While t'other, enraged that he could not once p.r.i.c.k him, Cried, ”Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a wh.o.r.e, Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!”

Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man, Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan; For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough, The devil himself can't get through his buff.

Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard, Not only to make him your s.h.i.+eld, but your vizard; And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar, Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore.

Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it, You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet; With the din of which tube my head you so bother, That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other.

You made me in your last a goose; I lay my life on't you are wrong, To raise me by such foul abuse; My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue; And slit, just like a bird will chatter, And like a bird do something more; When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter, I'll change you to a black-a-moor.

I'll write while I have half an eye in my head; I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead.

Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave, I'll feed on the gra.s.s that grows on your grave.[1]

[Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._]

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean, To see you live, so often slain.

My arrows fly and fly in vain, But still I try and try again.

I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein; Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain, Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean; I will not tell, because it's plain.

Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane; If so, from pen and ink refrain.

Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain For her and you; your life's a scene Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane, Enough to crack the strongest brain.

Now to conclude, I do remain, Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN

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