In vain we make poor Sheelah * toil,
Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
The goddess Want in triumph reigns:
And her chief officers of state,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNtry life. 1725.
Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
Nor seen by our betters.
THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
A companion with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat, or choose; a church without pews, Our horses astray; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.
ON STEALING A CROWN
WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP,
DEAR Dean, since you in sleepy wise
Have op'd your mouth, and clos'd your eyes;
Like ghost, I glide along your floor,
And softly shut the parlour door:
For, should I break your sweet repose,
Who knows what money you might lose;
Since oftentimes it has been found,
A dream has given ten thousand pound?
Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on,
And all you get shall be your own;
Provided you to this agree,
That all you lose belongs to me.
* The name of an Irish servant. N.
So, about twelve at night, the punk
Steals from the cully when he's drunk;
Nor is contented with a treat,
Without her privilege to cheat.
Nor can I the least difference find,
But that you left no clap behind.
But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye,
My twelve thirteens* and sixpence ha'penny、
To eat my meat, and drink my medlicot,
And then to give me such a deadly cut―
But 'tis observ'd, that men in gowns
Are most inclin'd to plunder crowns.
Could you but change a crown as easy
As you can steal one, how 'twould please yel
I thought the lady † at St. Catharine's
Knew how to set you better patterns;
For this I will not dine with Agmondisham +,
And for his victuals let a ragman dish 'em.
* A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland. F. Lady Mountcashel. See Vol. XVII. p. 9. N.
Agmondisham Vesey, esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the Dean had a great esteem. F.
ODE ON SCIENCE *.
O, HEAVENLY born! in deepest dells
If fairest science ever dwells
Beneath the mossy cave;
Indulge the verdure of the woods,
With azure beauty gild the floods,
And flowery carpets lave.
For, melancholy ever reigns
Delighted in the sylvan scenes
With scientifick light;
While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales,
Though wrapt from mortal sight.
Yet, goddess, yet the way explore
With magick rites and heathen lore
Obstructed and depress'd:
Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine,
Untaught, not uninspir'd, to shine,
By Reason's power redress'd.
When Solon and Lycurgus taught,
To moralize the human thought
Of mad opinion's maze,
To erring zeal they gave new laws,
Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause
That blends congenial rays.
Bid bright Astræa gild the morn,
Or bid a hundred suns be born,
This is written in the same style, and with the same design,
as his "Love Song in the modern Taste." H.
Without thy aid, in vain the poles,
In vain the zodiac system rolls,
In vain the lunar sphere.
Come, fairest princess of the throng,
Bring sweet philosophy along,
In metaphysick dreams;
While raptur'd bards no more behold
A vernal age of purer gold,
In Heliconian streams.
Drive Thraldom with malignant hand,
To curse some other destin'd land,
By Folly led astray:
lerne bear on azure wing;
Energick let her soar, and sing
Thy universal sway.
So, when Amphion bade the lyre
To more majestick sound aspire,
Behold the madding throng,
In wonder and oblivion drown'd,
To sculpture turn'd by magick sound,
And petrifying song.
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY.
MARCH 13, 1726-7.
HIS day, whate'er the Fates decree, Shall still be kept with joy by me : This day then let us not be told, That you are sick, and I grown old; Nor think on our approaching ills, And talk of spectacles and pills;
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff.
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days;
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once some serious lines.
Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
Can look with joy on what is past.
Were future happines and pain
A mere contrivance of the brain;
As atheists argue, to entice
And fit their proselytes for vice;
(The only comfort they propose,
To have companions in their woes)
Grant this the case; yet sure 'tis hard
That virtue, styl'd its own reward,
And by all sages understood
To be the chief of human good,
Should acting die; nor leave behind
Some lasting pleasure in the mind,
Which, by remembrance, will asswage
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
And strongly shoot a radiant dart
To shine through life's declining part.
Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent?
Your skilful hand employ'd to save
Despairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting with your store
Those whom you dragg'd from death before?
So Providence on mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates.
Your generous boldness to defend
An innocent and absent friend;
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