Chapter XII (1)

Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'Twill be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends,
And continue special friends.

[Footnote 1: Addressed to Lady Acheson.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: That is, will do no harm--we shall not disagree. "At Blank-Blank Square;--for we will break no squares By naming streets." _Don Juan_, Canto XIII, st. xxv. See Mr. Coleridge's note on this; Byron's Works, edit. 1903.--_W. E. B._]

POLITICAL POETRY

PARODY

ON THE RECORDER OF BLESSINGTON'S ADDRESS TO QUEEN ANNE

_Mr. William Crowe, Recorder of Blessington's Address to her Majesty, as copied from the London Gazette_.

To the Queen's most Excellent Majesty,

The humble Address of the Sovereign, Recorder, Burgesses, and Freemen, of the Borough of Blessington.

May it please your Majesty, Though we stand almost last on the roll of boroughs of this your majesty's kingdom of Ireland, and therefore, in good manners to our elder brothers, press but late among the joyful crowd about your royal throne: yet we beg leave to assure your majesty, that we come behind none in our good affection to your sacred person and government; insomuch, that the late surprising accounts from Germany have filled us with a joy not inferior to any of our fellow-subjects.

We heard with transport that the English warmed the field to that degree, that thirty squadrons, part of the vanquished enemy, were forced to fly to water, not able to stand their fire, and drank their last draught in the Danube, for the waste they had before committed on its injured banks, thereby putting an end to their master's long-boasted victories: a glorious push indeed, and worthy a general of the Queen of England. And we are not a little pleased, to find several gentlemen in considerable posts of your majesty's army, who drew their first breath in this country, sharing in the good fortune of those who so effectually put in execution the command of your gallant, enterprizing general, whose twin-battles have, with his own title of Marlborough, given immortality to the otherwise perishing names of Schellenberg and Hogstete: actions that speak him born under stars as propitious to England as that he now wears, on both which he has so often reflected lustre, as to have now abundantly repaid the glory they once lent him. Nor can we but congratulate with a joy proportioned to the success of your majesty's fleet, our last campaign at sea, since by it we observe the French obliged to steer their wonted course for security, to their ports; and Gibraltar, the Spaniards' ancient defence, bravely stormed, possessed, and maintained by your majesty's subjects.

May the supplies for reducing the exorbitant power of France be such, as may soon turn your wreaths of laurel into branches of olive: that, after the toils of a just and honourable war, carried on by a confederacy of which your majesty is most truly, as of the faith, styled Defender, we may live to enjoy, under your majesty's auspicious government, the blessings of a profound and lasting peace; a peace beyond the power of him to violate, who, but for his own unreasonable conveniency, destructive always of his neighbours, never yet kept any. And, to complete our happiness, may your majesty again prove to _your own family_, what you have been so eminently to the true church, a nursing mother. So wish, and so pray, may it please your majesty, your majesty's most dutiful and loyal subjects, and devoted humble servants.

This Address was presented January 17, 1704-5.

MR. WILLIAM CROWE'S ADDRESS TO HER MAJESTY, TURNED INTO METRE

From a town that consists of a church and a steeple, With three or four houses, and as many people, There went an Address in great form and good order, Composed, as 'tis said, by Will Crowe, their Recorder.[1] And thus it began to an excellent tune: Forgive us, good madam, that we did not as soon As the rest of the cities and towns of this nation Wish your majesty joy on this glorious occasion. Not that we're less hearty or loyal than others, But having a great many sisters and brothers, Our borough in riches and years far exceeding, We let them speak first, to show our good breeding. We have heard with much transport and great satisfaction Of the victory obtain'd in the late famous action, When the field was so warm'd, that it soon grew too hot For the French and Bavarians, who had all gone to pot, But that they thought best in great haste to retire, And leap into the water for fear of the fire. But says the good river, Ye fools, plague confound ye, Do ye think to swim through me, and that I'll not drown ye? Who have ravish'd, and murder'd, and play'd such damn'd pranks, And trod down the grass on my much-injured banks? Then, swelling with anger and rage to the brink, He gave the poor Monsieur his last draught of drink. So it plainly appears they were very well bang'd, And that some may be drown'd, who deserved to be hang'd. Great Marlbro' well push'd: 'twas well push'd indeed: Oh, how we adore you, because you succeed! And now I may say it, I hope without blushing, That you have got twins, by your violent pushing; Twin battles I mean, that will ne'er be forgotten, But live and be talk'd of, when we're dead and rotten. Let other nice lords sculk at home from the wars, Prank'd up and adorn'd with garters and stars, Which but twinkle like those in a cold frosty night; While to yours you are adding such lustre and light, That if you proceed, I'm sure very soon 'Twill be brighter and larger than the sun or the moon: A blazing star, I foretell, 'twill prove to the Gaul, That portends of his empire the ruin and fall. Now God bless your majesty, and our Lord Murrough,[2] And send him in safety and health to his borough.

[Footnote 1: Subsequently M.P. for Blessington, in the Irish Parliament; he suffered some injustice from Wharton, when Lord-Lieutenant: he lost his senses, and died in 1710. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, pp. 39, 54; and Character of the Earl of Wharton, "Prose Works," v, p. 27.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Murragh Boyle, first Viscount Blessington, author of a tragedy, "The Lost Princess." He died in 1712.--_W. E. B._]

JACK FRENCHMAN'S LAMENTATION[1]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG

To the Tune of "I tell thee, Dick, where I have been."[2]

Ye Commons and Peers,
Pray lend me your ears,
I'll sing you a song, (if I can,)
How Lewis le Grand
Was put to a stand,
By the arms of our gracious Queen Anne.

How his army so great,
Had a total defeat,
And close by the river Dender:
Where his grandchildren twain,
For fear of being slain,
Gallop'd off with the Popish Pretender.

To a steeple on high,
The battle to spy,
Up mounted these clever young men;[3]
But when from the spire,
They saw so much fire,
Most cleverly came down again.

Then on horseback they got
All on the same spot,
By advice of their cousin Vendosme,
O Lord! cried out he,
Unto young _Burgundy_,
Would your brother and you were at home!

While this he did say,
Without more delay,
Away the young gentry fled;
Whose heels for that work,
Were much lighter than cork,
Though their hearts were as heavy as lead.

Not so did behave
Young Hanover brave,[4]
In this bloody field I assure ye:
When his war-horse was shot
He valued it not,
But fought it on foot like a fury.

Full firmly he stood,
As became his high blood,
Which runs in his veins so blue:
For this gallant young man,
Being a-kin to QUEEN ANNE,
Did as (were she a man) she would do.

What a racket was here,
(I think 'twas last year,)
For a little misfortune in Spain!
For by letting 'em win,
We have drawn the puts in,
To lose all they're worth this campaign.

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] That, bending down its top, divines Whene'er the soil has golden mines; Where there are none, it stands erect, Scorning to show the least respect: As ready was the wand of Sid To bend where golden mines were hid: In Scottish hills found precious ore,[4] Where none e'er look'd for it before; And by a gentle bow divine How well a cully's purse was lined; To a forlorn and broken rake, Stood without motion like a stake. The rod of Hermes [5] was renown'd For charms above and under ground; To sleep could mortal eyelids fix, And drive departed souls to Styx. That rod was a just type of Sid's, Which o'er a British senate's lids Could scatter opium full as well, And drive as many souls to hell. Sid's rod was slender, white, and tall, Which oft he used to fish withal; A PLACE was fasten'd to the hook, And many score of _gudgeons_ took; Yet still so happy was his fate, He caught his fish and sav'd his bait. Sid's brethren of the conj'ring tribe, A circle with their rod describe, Which proves a magical redoubt, To keep mischievous spirits out. Sid's rod was of a larger stride, And made a circle thrice as wide, Where spirits throng'd with hideous din, And he stood there to take them in; But when th'enchanted rod was broke, They vanish'd in a stinking smoke. Achilles' sceptre was of wood, Like Sid's, but nothing near so good; Though down from ancestors divine Transmitted to the heroes line; Thence, thro' a long descent of kings, Came an HEIRLOOM,[6] as Homer sings. Though this description looks so big, That sceptre was a sapless twig, Which, from the fatal day, when first It left the forest where 'twas nurs'd, As Homer tells us o'er and o'er, Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blossom bore. Sid's sceptre, full of juice, did shoot In golden boughs, and golden fruit; And he, the dragon never sleeping, Guarded each fair Hesperian Pippin. No hobby-horse, with gorgeous top, The dearest in Charles Mather's[7] shop, Or glittering tinsel of May Fair, Could with this rod of Sid compare.[8] Dear Sid, then why wert thou so mad To break thy rod like naughty lad?[9] You should have kiss'd it in your distress, And then return'd it to your mistress; Or made it a Newmarket switch,[10] And not a rod for thine own breech. But since old Sid has broken this, His next may be a rod in piss.

[Footnote 1: Cid Hamet Ben Eng'li, the supposed inspirer of Cervantes. See "Don Quixote," last chapter.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: When Swift came to London, in 1710, about the time the ministry was changed, his reception from Lord Treasurer Godolphin was, as he wrote to Archbishop King, 9th Sept., "altogether different from what he ever received from any great man in his life, altogether short, dry, and morose." To Stella he writes that this coldness had "enraged him so that he was almost vowing revenge." On the Treasurer's enforced retirement, Swift's resentment took effect in the above "lampoon" which was read at Harley's, on the 15th October, 1710, and "ran prodigiously," but was not then "suspected for Swift's." See Journal to Stella, Sept. 9 and Oct. 15.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The _virgula divina_, said to be attracted by minerals.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 4: Supposed to allude to the Union.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 5: Mercury's Caduceus, by which he could settle all disputes and differences.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Godolphin's favour arose from his connexion with the family of Marlborough by the marriage of his son to the Duke's daughter, Henrietta Churchill.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: An eminent toyman in Fleet Street.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 8: The allusion is to Godolphin's name, Sidney, and to his staff of office.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: A letter was sent him by the groom of the Queen's stables to desire he would break his staff, which would be the easiest way both to her Majesty and him. Mr. Smith, Chancellor of the Exchequer, happening to come in a little after, my lord broke his staff, and flung the pieces in the chimney, desiring Mr. Smith to witness that he had obeyed the Queen's commands. Swift to Archbishop King, Sept. 9, 1710.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 10: Lord Godolphin is satirized by Pope for a strong attachment
to the turf. See his "Moral Essays," Epist. I, 81-5.
"Who would not praise Patritio's high desert,
His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart,"
"He thanks you not, his pride is in piquet,
Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet."]

THE FAMOUS SPEECH-MAKER OF ENGLAND

OR BARON (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL'S CHARGE AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 17IO

Risum teneatis?--HORAT., _Ars Poetica_, 5.

From London to Exon, By special direction, Came down the world's wonder, Sir Salathiel Blunder, With a quoif on his head As heavy as lead; And thus opened and said:

Gentlemen of the Grand Inquest,

Her majesty, mark it,
Appointed this circuit
For me and my brother,
Before any other;
To execute laws,
As you may suppose,
Upon such as offenders have been.
So then, not to scatter
More words on the matter,
We're beginning just now to begin.
But hold--first and foremost, I must enter a clause,
As touching and concerning our excellent laws;
Which here I aver,
Are better by far
Than them all put together abroad and beyond sea;
For I ne'er read the like, nor e'er shall, I fancy
The laws of our land
Don't abet, but withstand,
Inquisition and thrall,
And whatever may gall,
And fire withal;
And sword that devours
Wherever it scowers:
They preserve liberty and property, for which men pull and haul so,
And they are made for the support of good government also.
Her majesty, knowing
The best way of going
To work for the weal of the nation,
Builds on that rock,
Which all storms will mock,
Since Religion is made the foundation.
And, I tell you to boot, she
Resolves resolutely,
No promotion to give
To the best man alive,
In church or in state,
(I'm an instance of that,)
But only to such of a good reputation
For temper, morality, and moderation.
Fire! fire! a wild-fire,
Which greatly disturbs the queen's peace
Lies running about;
And if you don't put it out,
( That's positive) will increase:
And any may spy,
With half of an eye,
That it comes from our priests and Papistical fry.
Ye have one of these fellows,
With fiery bellows,
Come hither to blow and to puff here;
Who having been toss'd
From pillar to post,
At last vents his rascally stuff here:
Which to such as are honest must sound very oddly,
When they ought to preach nothing but what's very godly;
As here from this place we charge you to do,
As ye'll answer to man, besides ye know who.
Ye have a Diocesan,--[l]
But I don't know the man;--
The man's a good liver,
They tell me, however,
And fiery never!
Now, ye under-pullers,
That wear such black colours,
How well would it look,
If his measures ye took,
Thus for head and for rump
Together to jump;
For there's none deserve places,
I speak't to their faces,
But men of such graces,
And I hope he will never prefer any asses;
Especially when I'm so confident on't,
For reasons of state, that her majesty won't
Know, I myself I
Was present and by,
At the great trial, where there was a great company,
Of a turbulent preacher, who, cursedly hot,
Turn'd the fifth of November, even the gun-powder plot,
Into impudent railing, and the devil knows what:
Exclaiming like fury--it was at Paul's, London--
How church was in danger, and like to be undone,
And so gave the lie to gracious Queen Anne;
And, which is far worse, to our parliament-men:
And then printed a book,
Into which men did look:
True, he made a good text;
But what follow'd next
Was nought but a dunghill of sordid abuses,
Instead of sound doctrine, with proofs to't, and uses.
It was high time of day
That such inflammation
should be extinguish'd without more delay:
But there was no engine could possibly do't,
Till the commons play'd theirs, and so quite put it out.
So the man was tried for't,
Before highest court:
Now it's plain to be seen,
It's his principles I mean,
Where they suffer'd this noisy and his lawyers to bellow:
Which over, the blade
A poor punishment had
For that racket he made.
By which ye may know
They thought as I do,
That he is but at best an inconsiderable fellow.
Upon this I find here,
And everywhere,
That the country rides rusty, and is all out of gear:
And for what?
May I not
In opinion vary,
And think the contrary,
But it must create
Unfriendly debate,
And disunion straight;
When no reason in nature
Can be given of the matter,
Any more than for shapes or for different stature?
If you love your dear selves, your religion or queen,
Ye ought in good manners to be peaceable men:
For nothing disgusts her
Like making a bluster:
And your making this riot,
Is what she could cry at,
Since all her concern's for our welfare and quiet.
I would ask any man
Of them all that maintain
Their passive obedience
With such mighty vehemence,
That damn'd doctrine, I trow!
What he means by it, ho',
To trump it up now?
Or to tell me in short,
What need there is for't?
Ye may say, I am hot;
I say I am not;
Only warm, as the subject on which I am got.
There are those alive yet,
If they do not forget,
May remember what mischiefs it did church and state:
Or at least must have heard
The deplorable calamities
It drew upon families,
About sixty years ago and upward.
And now, do ye see,
Whoever they be,
That make such an oration
In our Protestant nation,
As though church was all on a fire,--
With whatever cloak
They may cover their talk,
And wheedle the folk,
That the oaths they have took,
As our governors strictly require;--
I say they are men--(and I'm a judge, ye all know,)
That would our most excellent laws overthrow;
For the greater part of them to church never go;
Or, what's much the same, it by very great chance is,
If e'er they partake of her wise ordinances.
Their aim is, no doubt,
Were they made to speak out,
To pluck down the queen, that they make all this rout;
And to set up, moreover,
A bastardly brother;
Or at least to prevent the House of Hanover.
Ye gentlemen of the jury,
What means all this fury,
Of which I'm inform'd by good hands, I assure ye;
This insulting of persons by blows and rude speeches,
And breaking of windows, which, you know, maketh breaches?
Ye ought to resent it,
And in duty present it,
For the law is against it;
Not only the actors engaged in this job,
But those that encourage and set on the mob:
The mob,[2] a paw word, and which I ne'er mention,
But must in this place, for the sake of distinction.
I hear that some bailiffs and some justices
Have strove what they could, all this rage to suppress;
And I hope many more
Will exert the like power,
Since none will, depend on't,
Get a jot of preferment.
But men of this kidney, as I told you before.--
I'll tell you a story: Once upon a time,
Some hot-headed fellows must needs take a whim,
And so were so weak
(Twas a mighty mistake)
To pull down and abuse
Bawdy-houses and stews;
Who, tried by the laws of the realm for high-treason,
Were hang'd, drawn, and quarter'd for that very reason.
When the time came about
For us all to set out,
We went to take leave of the queen;
Where were great men of worth,
Great heads and so forth,
The greatest that ever were seen:
And she gave us a large
And particular charge;--
Good part on't indeed
Is quite out of my head;--
But I remember she said,
We should recommend peace and good neighbourhood, wheresoever we came;
and so I do here;
For that every one, not only men and their wives,
Should do all that they can to lead peaceable lives;
And told us withal, that she fully expected
A special account how ye all stood affected;
When we've been at St. James's, you'll hear of the matter.
Again then I charge ye,
Ye men of the clergy,
That ye follow the track all
Of your own Bishop Blackall,
And preach, as ye should,
What's savoury and good;
And together all cling,
As it were, in a string;
Not falling out, quarrelling one with another,
Now we're treating with Monsieur,--that son of his mother.

Then proceeded on the common matters of the law; and concluded:

Once more, and no more, since few words are best,
I charge you all present, by way of request,
If ye honour, as I do,
Our dear royal widow,
Or have any compassion
For church or the nation;
And would live a long while
In continual smile,
And eat roast and boil,
And not be forgotten,
When ye are dead and rotten;
That ye would be quiet, and peaceably dwell,
And never fall out, but p--s all in a quill.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Offspring Blackall. He was made Bishop of Exeter in 1707, and died in 1716.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Swift hated the word "mob," and insisted that the proper word to use was "rabble." See "Letters of Swift," edit. Birkbeck Hill, p. 55; and "Prose Works," ix, p. 35, _n.--_W. E. B._]

PARODY ON THE RECORDER'S SPEECH

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND, 4TH JULY, 1711

This city can omit no opportunity of expressing their hearty affection for her majesty's person and government; and their regard for your grace, who has the honour of representing her in this kingdom.

We retain, my lord, a grateful remembrance of the mild and just Administration of the government of this kingdom by your noble ancestors; and, when we consider the share your grace had in the happy Revolution, in 1688, and the many good laws you have procured us since, particularly that for preventing the farther growth of Popery, we are assured that that liberty and property, that happy constitution in church and state, to which we were restored by King William of glorious memory, will be inviolably preserved under your grace's administration. And we are persuaded that we cannot more effectually recommend ourselves to your grace's favour and protection, than by assuring you that we will, to the utmost of our power, contribute to the honour and safety of her majesty's government, the maintenance of the succession in the illustrious house of Hanover, and that we shall at all times oppose the secret and open attempts of the Pretender, and all his abettors.

THE RECORDER'S SPEECH EXPLAINED BY THE TORIES

An ancient metropolis, famous of late For opposing the Church, and for nosing the State, For protecting sedition and rejecting order, Made the following speech by their mouth, the Recorder: First, to tell you the name of this place of renown, Some still call it Dublin, but most Forster's town.

THE SPEECH

May it please your Grace, We cannot omit this occasion to tell, That we love the Queen's person and government well; Then next, to your Grace we this compliment make, That our worships regard you, but 'tis for her sake: Though our mouth be a Whig, and our head a Dissenter, Yet salute you we must, 'cause you represent her: Nor can we forget, sir, that some of your line Did with mildness and peace in this government shine. But of all your exploits, we'll allow but one fact, That your Grace has procured us a Popery Act. By this you may see that the least of your actions Does conduce still the most to our satisfactions. And lastly, because in the year eighty-eight You did early appear in defence of our right, We give no other proof of your zeal to your Prince; So we freely forget all your services since. It's then only we hope, that whilst you rule o'er us, You'll tread in the steps of King William the glorious, Whom we're always adoring, tho' hand over head, For we owe him allegiance, although he be dead; Which shows that good zeal may be founded in spleen, Since a dead Prince we worship, to lessen the Queen. And as for her Majesty, we will defend her Against our hobgoblin, the Popish Pretender. Our valiant militia will stoutly stand by her, Against the sly Jack, and the sturdy High-flier. She is safe when thus guarded, if Providence bless her, And Hanover's sure to be next her successor. Thus ended the speech, but what heart would not pity His Grace, almost choked with the breath of the City!

BALLAD

To the tune of "Commons and Peers."

A WONDERFUL age
Is now on the stage:
I'll sing you a song, if I can,
How modern Whigs,
Dance forty-one jigs,[1]
But God bless our gracious Queen Anne.

The kirk with applause
Is established by laws
As the orthodox church of the nation.
The bishops do own
It's as good as their own.
And this, Sir, is call'd moderation.

It's no riddle now
To let you see how
A church by oppression may speed;
Nor is't banter or jest,
That the kirk faith is best
On the other side of the Tweed.

For no soil can suit
With every fruit,
Even so, Sir, it is with religion;
The best church by far
Is what grows where you are,
Were it Mahomet's ass or his pigeon.

Another strange story
That vexes the Tory,
But sure there's no mystery in it,
That a pension and place
Give communicants grace,
Who design to turn tail the next minute.

For if it be not strange,
That religion should change,
As often as climates and fashions;
Then sure there's no harm,
That one should conform.
To serve their own private occasions.

Another new dance,
Which of late they advance,
Is to cry up the birth of Pretender,
And those that dare own
The queen heir to the crown,
Are traitors, not fit to defend her.

The subject's most loyal
That hates the blood royal,
And they for employments have merit,
Who swear queen and steeple
Were made by the people,
And neither have right to inherit.

The monarchy's fixt,
By making on't mixt,
And by non-resistance o'erthrown;
And preaching obedience
Destroys our allegiance,
And thus the Whigs prop up the throne.

That viceroy [2] is best,
That would take off the test,
And made a sham speech to attempt it;
But being true blue,
When he found 'twould not do,
Swore, damn him, if ever he meant it.

'Tis no news that Tom Double
The nation should bubble,
Nor is't any wonder or riddle,
That a parliament rump
Should play hop, step, and jump,
And dance any jig to his fiddle.

But now, sir, they tell,
How Sacheverell,
By bringing old doctrines in fashion,
Hath, like a damn'd rogue,
Brought religion in vogue,
And so open'd the eyes of the nation.

Then let's pray without spleen,
May God bless the queen,
And her fellow-monarchs the people;
May they prosper and thrive,
Whilst I am alive,
And so may the church with the steeple.

[Footnote 1: Alluding to the year 1641, when the great rebellion broke out. _Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Lord Wharton.]

ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE[1]

TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD 1710

Atlas, we read in ancient song, Was so exceeding tall and strong, He bore the skies upon his back, Just as the pedler does his pack; But, as the pedler overpress'd Unloads upon a stall to rest, Or, when he can no longer stand Desires a friend to lend a hand; So Atlas, lest the ponderous spheres Should sink, and fall about his ears, Got Hercules to bear the pile, That he might sit and rest awhile. Yet Hercules was not so strong, Nor could have borne it half so long. Great statesmen are in this condition; And Atlas is a politician, A premier minister of state; Alcides one of second rate. Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise; Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies Too long upon his single shoulders, Sink down he must, or find upholders.

[Footnote 1: In these free, and yet complimentary verses, Swift cautions Oxford against his greatest political error, that affectation of mystery, and wish of engrossing the whole management of public affairs, which first disgusted, and then alienated, Harcourt and Bolingbroke. On this point our author has spoken very fully in the "Free Thoughts upon. The present State of Affairs."--_Scott_. See "Prose Works," v, 391.--_W. E. B_. ]

LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON MR. HARLEY'S BEING STABBED, AND ADDRESSED TO HIS PHYSICIAN, 1710-11 [1]

On Britain Europe's safety lies, Britain is lost if Harley dies: Harley depends upon your skill: Think what you save, or what you kill.

[Footnote 1: For details of Guiscard's murderous attack on Harley, see Journal to Stella, March 8, 1710-11, "Prose Works," ii.--_W. E. B._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG

BEING THE INTENDED SPEECH OF A FAMOUS ORATOR AGAINST PEACE. 1711

An orator _dismal_ of _Nottinghamshire,_ Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire, Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place, Is come up, _vi et armis_, to break the queen's peace. He has vamp'd an old speech, and the court, to their sorrow, Shall hear him harangue against Prior to-morrow. When once he begins, he never will flinch, But repeats the same note a whole day like a Finch.[1] I have heard all the speech repeated by Hoppy,' And, "mistakes to prevent, I've obtained a copy."

THE SPEECH

Whereas, notwithstanding I am in great pain, To hear we are making a peace without Spain; But, most noble senators, 'tis a great shame, There should be a peace, while I'm _Not-in-game._ The duke show'd me all his fine house; and the duchess From her closet brought out a full purse in her clutches: I talk'd of a peace, and they both gave a start, His grace swore by G--d, and her grace let a f--t: My long old-fashion'd pocket was presently cramm'd; And sooner than vote for a peace I'll be damn'd. But some will cry turn-coat, and rip up old stories, How I always pretended to be for the Tories: I answer; the Tories were in my good graces, Till all my relations were put into places. But still I'm in principle ever the same, And will quit my best friends, while I'm _Not-in-game._ When I and some others subscribed our names To a plot for expelling my master King James, I withdrew my subscription by help of a blot, And so might discover or gain by the plot: I had my advantage, and stood at defiance, For Daniel[2] was got from the den of the lions: I came in without danger, and was I to blame? For, rather than hang, I would be _Not-in-game._ I swore to the queen, that the Prince of Hanover During her sacred life would never come over: I made use of a trope; that "an heir to invite, Was like keeping her monument always in sight." But, when I thought proper, I alter'd my note; And in her own hearing I boldly did vote, That her Majesty stood in great need of a tutor, And must have an old or a young coadjutor: For why; I would fain have put all in a flame, Because, for some reasons, I was _Not-in-game._ Now my new benefactors have brought me about, And I'll vote against peace, with Spain or without: Though the court gives my nephews, and brothers, and cousins, And all my whole family, places by dozens; Yet, since I know where a full purse may be found, And hardly pay eighteen-pence tax in the pound: Since the Tories have thus disappointed my hopes, And will neither regard my figures nor tropes, I'll speech against peace while _Dismal's_ my name, And be a true Whig, while I'm _Not-in-game._

[Footnote 1: Lord Nottingham's family name.]

[Footnote 2: This was the Earl's Christian name.]

THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1] "About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight's widow was buried in the cloisters. In digging the grave, the sexton struck against a small leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St. George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a shift to obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I am informed, is now in the hands of the ingenious Dr. Woodward, F. R. S. where, I suppose, the curious will not be refused the satisfaction of seeing it.

"The lines seem to be a sort of prophecy, and written in verse, as old prophecies usually are, but in a very hobbling kind of measure. Their meaning is very dark, if it be any at all; of which the learned reader can judge better than I: however it be, several persons were of opinion that they deserved to be published, both as they discover somewhat of the genius of a former age, and may be an amusement to the present."--_Swift_.

The subject of this virulent satire was Elizabeth, Baroness Percy, daughter and heiress of Josceline, Earl of Northumberland, who died in 1670. She was born in 1666. In 1679 she was married to Henry Cavendish, Earl of Ogle, who died in 1680. In 1681, she married Thomas Thynne, a man of great wealth, a friend of the Duke of Monmouth and the Issachar of Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel." A few months afterwards, in February 1681-2, Thynne was assassinated in the Haymarket by foreigners, who were devoted friends of Count Konigsmark, and appear to have acted under his direction. The Count had been in London shortly before Lady Ogle's marriage to Thynne, and had then paid his addresses to her. He fled the day after the murder, but was brought back, and was tried with the principals as an accessory, but was acquitted. Four months after the murder of Thynne, his widow was married to Charles Seymour, Duke of Somerset, on 30th May, 1682, and ultimately became the favourite and friend of Queen Anne, and a zealous partisan of the Whig party. Hence Swift's "Prophecy." See "State Trials," vol. ix, and "Notes and Queries," 1st S., v. 269.--_W. E. B._

When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,[2] With a saint[3] at his chin and a seal at his fob, Shall not see one[4] New-Years-day in that year, Then let old England make good cheer: Windsor[5] and Bristol[5] then shall be Joined together in the Low-countree.[5] Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird[6] Speak against peace right many a word; And some shall admire his coneying wit, For many good groats his tongue shall slit. But spight of the Harpy[7] that crawls on all four, There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more But England must cry alack and well-a-day, If the stick be taken from the dead sea.[8] And, dear Englond, if ought I understond, Beware of Carrots[9] from Northumberlond. Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get, If so be they are in Somer set: Their Conyngs[10] mark thou; for I have been told, They assassine when younge, and poison when old. Root out these Carrots, O thou,[11] whose name is backwards and forwards always the same; And keep thee close to thee always that name Which backwards and forwards is [12] almost the same. And, England, wouldst thou be happy still, Burn those Carrots under a Hill.[13]

[Footnote 1: Although Swift was advised by Mrs. Masham "not to let the Prophecy be published," and he acted on her advice, many copies were "printed and given about, but not sold." To Stella, Swift writes: "I doubt not but you will have the Prophecy in Ireland although it is not published here, only printed copies given to friends." See Journal to Stella, 26, 27 Dec. 1711, and Jan. 4, 1711-12.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dr. John Robinson, Bishop of Bristol, one of the plenipotentiaries at Utrecht.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: He was Dean of Windsor, and lord privy seal.]

[Footnote 4: The New Style, which was not adopted in Great Britain and Ireland till it was brought in by Lord Chesterfield in 1752, was then Observed in most parts of Europe. The bishop set out from England the Latter end of December, O. S.; and on his arrival at Utrecht, by the Variation of the style, he found January somewhat advanced.]

[Footnote 5: Alluding to the deanery and bishopric being possessed by the same person, then at Utrecht.]

[Footnote 6: Earl of Nottingham.]

[Footnote 7: Duke of Marlborough.]

[Footnote 8: The treasurer's wand, taken from Harley, whose second title was Lord _Mortimer_.]

[Footnote 9: The Duchess of Somerset.[1]]

[Footnote 10: Count Konigsmark.[2]]

[Footnote 11: ANNA.]

[Footnote 12: MASHAM.]

[Footnote 13: Lady Masham's maiden name.]

[embedded footnote 1: She had red hair, _post_, 165. ]

[embedded footnote 2: Or Coningsmark.]

CORINNA,[1] A BALLAD 1711-12

This day (the year I dare not tell)
Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
Into the world Corinna fell,
And he endued her with his art.

But Cupid with a Satyr comes;
Both softly to the cradle creep;
Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.

Then Cupid thus: "This little maid
Of love shall always speak and write;"
"And I pronounce," the Satyr said,
"The world shall feel her scratch and bite."

Her talent she display'd betimes;
For in a few revolving moons,
She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes,
And all her gestures were lampoons.

At six years old, the subtle jade
Stole to the pantry-door, and found
The butler with my lady's maid:
And you may swear the tale went round.

She made a song, how little miss
Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad:
And how, when master went to p--,
Miss came, and peep'd at all he had.

At twelve, a wit and a coquette;
Marries for love, half whore, half wife;
Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt;
Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life.

Her common-place book all gallant is,
Of scandal now a cornucopia;
She pours it out in Atalantis
Or memoirs of the New Utopia.

[Footnote 1: This ballad refers to some details in the life of Mrs. de la Rivière Manley, a political writer, who was born about 1672, and died in July, 1724. The work by which she became famous was "Secret memoirs and manners of several persons of quality of both sexes, from the New Atalantis." She was Swift's amanuensis and assistant in "The Examiner," and succeeded him as Editor. In his Journal to Stella, Jan. 26, 1711-12, he writes: "Poor Mrs. Manley, the author, is very ill of a dropsy and sore leg; the printer tells me he is afraid she cannot live long. I am heartily sorry for her. She has very generous principles for one of her sort; and a great deal of good sense and invention: She is about forty, very homely and very fat." Swift's subsequent severe attack upon her in these verses can only be accounted for, but cannot be excused by, some change in his political views. See "The Tatler," Nos. 35, 63, _edit. 1786.--W. E. B._]

THE FABLE OF MIDAS.[1] 1711-12

Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.

Midas, we are in story told,[2] Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold: He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round Glitter'd like spangles on the ground: A codling, ere it went his lip in, Would straight become a golden pippin. He call'd for drink; you saw him sup Potable gold in golden cup: His empty paunch that he might fill, He suck'd his victuals thro' a quill. Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders, Or't had been happy for gold-finders: He cock'd his hat, you would have said Mambrino's[3] helm adorn'd his head; Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay On magazines of corn or hay, Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead Of paltry provender and bread; Hence, we are by wise farmers told[4] Old hay is equal to old gold:[5] And hence a critic deep maintains We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains. This fool had got a lucky hit; And people fancied he had wit, Two gods their skill in music tried And both chose Midas to decide: He against Ph[oelig]bus' harp decreed, And gave it for Pan's oaten reed: The god of wit, to show his grudge, Clapt asses' ears upon the judge, A goodly pair, erect and wide, Which he could neither gild nor hide. And now the virtue of his hands Was lost among Pactolus' sands, Against whose torrent while he swims The golden scurf peels off his limbs: Fame spreads the news, and people travel From far, to gather golden gravel; Midas, exposed to all their jeers, Had lost his art, and kept his ears. This tale inclines the gentle reader To think upon a certain leader; To whom, from Midas down, descends That virtue in the fingers' ends. What else by perquisites are meant, By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.? By places and commissions sold, And turning dung itself to gold? By starving in the midst of store, As t'other Midas did before? None e'er did modern Midas chuse Subject or patron of his muse, But found him thus their merit scan, That Phoebus must give place to Pan: He values not the poet's praise, Nor will exchange his plums [6] for bays. To Pan alone rich misers call; And there's the jest, for Pan is ALL. Here English wits will be to seek, Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek. Besides, it plainly now appears Our Midas, too, has ass's ears: Where every fool his mouth applies, And whispers in a thousand lies; Such gross delusions could not pass Thro' any ears but of an ass. But gold defiles with frequent touch, There's nothing fouls the hand so much; And scholars give it for the cause Of British Midas' dirty paws; Which, while the senate strove to scour, They wash'd away the chemic power.[7] While he his utmost strength applied, To swim against this popular tide, The golden spoils flew off apace, Here fell a pension, there a place: The torrent merciless imbibes Commissions, perquisites, and bribes, By their own weight sunk to the bottom; Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em! And Midas now neglected stands, With ass's ears, and dirty hands.

[Footnote 1: This cutting satire upon the Duke of Marlborough was written about the time when he was deprived of his employments. See Journal to Stella, Feb. 14, 1711-12, "Prose Works," ii, 337.]

[Footnote 2: Ovid, "Met.," lib. xi; Hyginus, "Fab." 191.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Almonte and Mambrino, two Saracens of great valour, had each a golden helmet. Orlando Furioso took Almonte's, and his friend Rinaldo that of Mambrino. "Orlando Furioso," Canto I, St. 28. And readers of "Don Quixote" may remember how the knight argued with Sancho Panza that the barber's bason was the helmet of Mambrino.--"Don Quixote," pt. I, book 3, ch. 7.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Stella.]

[Footnote 5: The Duke of Marlborough was accused of having received large sums, as perquisites, from the contractors, who furnished bread, forage, etc., to the army.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 6: Scott prints this word "plumes," substituting a false meaning for the real point of the poem.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 7: The result of the investigations of the House of Commons was the removal of the Duke of Marlborough from his command, and all his employments.--_Scott_.]

TOLAND'S INVITATION TO DISMAL[1] TO DINE WITH THE CALVES’ HEAD CLUB

Written A.D. 1712.--_Stella._ Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5.

Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party writer in behalf of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet on the demolition of Dunkirk, and another called "The Art of Reasoning," in which he directly charged Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender. The Earl of Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called Dismal from his swarthy complexion, was bred a rigid High-Churchman, and was only induced to support the Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their consenting to the bill against occasional conformity. He was so distinguished for regularity, as to be termed by Rowe "The sober Earl of Nottingham, Of sober sire descended."--HOR., _Odes_, ii, 4. From these points of his character, we may estimate the severity of the following satire, which represents this pillar of High-Church principles as invited by the republican Toland to solemnize the 30th January, by attending the Calves' Head Club.--_Scott_.

If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine Upon a single dish, and tavern wine, Toland to you this invitation sends, To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends. Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes, Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes. To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare, Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share: When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell, How by brave hands the royal traitor fell; The meat shall represent the tyrant's head, The wine, his blood our predecessors shed; Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings, We toast, Confusion to the race of kings! At monarchy we nobly show our spight, And talk, what fools call treason, all the night. Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk, Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk? Wine can clear up Godolphin's cloudy face, And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place: By force of wine, ev'n Scarborough is brave, Hal[2] grows more pert, and Somers not so grave: Wine can give Portland wit, and Cleaveland sense, Montague learning, Bolton eloquence: Cholmondeley, when drunk, can never lose his wand; And Lincoln then imagines he has land. My province is, to see that all be right, Glasses and linen clean, and pewter bright; From our mysterious club to keep out spies, And Tories (dress'd like waiters) in disguise. You shall be coupled as you best approve, Seated at table next the man you love. Sunderland, Orford, Boyle, and Richmond's grace Will come; and Hampden shall have Walpole's place; Wharton, unless prevented by a whore, Will hardly fail; and there is room for more; But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink; And honest Harry is too apt to stink. Let no pretence of bus'ness make you stay; Yet take one word of counsel[3] by the way. If Guernsey calls, send word you're gone abroad; He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop Laud, Or make you fast, and carry you to prayers; But, if he will break in, and walk up stairs, Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there; Then order Squash to call a hackney chair.

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_. See Journal to Stella, July 1, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, 375; and ix, 256, 287.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Right Honourable Henry Boyle.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Scott prints "comfort."--_Forster_.]

PEACE AND DUNKIRK

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL 1712

To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again."

Spite of Dutch friends and English foes,
Poor Britain shall have peace at last:
Holland got towns, and we got blows;
But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast.
We have got it in a string,
And the Whigs may all go swing,
For among good friends I love to be plain;
All their false deluded hopes
Will, or ought to end in ropes;
"But the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

Sunderland’s run out of his wits,
And Dismal double Dismal looks;
Wharton can only swear by fits,
And strutting Hal is off the hooks;
Old Godolphin, full of spleen,
Made false moves, and lost his Queen:
Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane:
But a Prince of high renown
Swore he'd rather lose a crown,
"Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."

Our merchant-ships may cut the line,
And not be snapt by privateers.
And commoners who love good wine
Will drink it now as well as peers:
Landed men shall have their rent,
Yet our stocks rise _cent, per cent._
The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain:
We'll bring on us no more debts,
Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes;
"And the Queen shall enjoy her own again."