A Ballad

Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town?
By my soul there's bad news, for the gold she was pull'd down,
The gold she was pull'd down, of that I'm very sure,
For I saw'd them reading upon the towlsel[2] doore.
    Sing, och, och, hoh, hoh.[3]

Arrah! who was him reading? 'twas jauntleman in ruffles,
And Patrick's bell she was ringing all in muffles;
She was ringing very sorry, her tongue tied up with rag,
Lorsha! and out of her shteeple there was hung a black flag.[4]
    Sing, och, & c.

Patrick astore, who was him made this law?
Some they do say, 'twas the big man of straw;[5]
But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,[6]
The devil he may take her into hell and Boult-her!
    Sing, och, & c.

Musha! Why Parliament wouldn't you maul,
Those carters, and paviours, and footmen, and all;[7]
Those rascally paviours who did us undermine,
Och ma ceade millia mollighart[8] on the feeders of swine!
    Sing, och, & c.

Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift was an Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer, poet and cleric who became Dean of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. Swift is remembered for works such as "A Tale of a Tub" (1704), "An Argument Against Abolishing Christianity" (1712), and "Gulliver's Travels" (1726). Swift originally published all of his works under pseudonyms—such as Lemuel Gulliver, Isaac Bickerstaff, Drapier's Letters as MB Drapier—and works were sometimes attributed to Anonymous.

Jonathan Swift

Peace And Dunkirk

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

The Hardship Upon The Ladies

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

To Love[1]

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Epigram

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Ballad To The Tune Of The Cut-Purse

[1]

WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702


I

Once on a time, as old stories rehearse,
    A friar would need show his talent in Latin;
But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse,
    Because he could find no word to come pat in;
                    Then all in the place
                    He left a void space,
        And so went to bed in a desperate case:
When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle!
He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle.
    CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't;
        Who would not write verses with such an assistant?


II

This put me the friar into an amazement;
    For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite;
That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement...

Jonathan Swift

An Excellent New Song[1]; On A Seditious Pamphlet.

1720-21

To the tune of "Packington's Pound."


Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes,
Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over,
With forty things more: now hear what the law says,
Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover.
        Though a printer and Dean,
        Seditiously mean,
Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean,
We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

In England the dead in woollen are clad,
    The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on;
To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad,
    Since a living dog better is than a dead lion.
        Our wives they grow sullen
        At wearing of woollen,
And all we poor s...

Jonathan Swift

A Ballad On The Game Of Traffic

WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699


My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal,
    Delivers cards about,
But the first knave does seldom fail
    To find the doctor out.

But then his honour cried, Gadzooks!
    And seem'd to knit his brow:
For on a knave he never looks
    But he thinks upon Jack How.[2]

My lady, though she is no player,
    Some bungling partner takes,
And, wedged in corner of a chair,
    Takes snuff, and holds the stakes.

Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense
    For pair royals and sequents;
But, wisely cautious of her pence,
    The castle seldom frequents.

Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases,
    I'd won it, on my word,
If I had but a pair of aces,
    And could pick up a third...

Jonathan Swift

The Ballad Of Persse O'Reilly

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
(Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
(Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
Jail him and joy.

He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,
(Chorus) And religious reform,
Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my ...

James Joyce

A New Song On Wood's Halfpence

Ye people of Ireland, both country and city,
Come listen with patience, and hear out my ditty:
At this time I'll choose to be wiser than witty.
            Which nobody can deny.

The halfpence are coming, the nation's undoing,
There's an end of your ploughing, and baking, and brewing;
In short, you must all go to wreck and to ruin.
            Which, & c.

Both high men and low men, and thick men and tall men,
And rich men and poor men, and free men and thrall men,
Will suffer; and this man, and that man, and all men.
            Which, & c.

The soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay;
His fivepence will prove but a farthing a-day,
For meat, or for drink; or he must run away.
            Which, & c.

When he pulls out his twop...

Jonathan Swift

On The Irish Club. [1]

Ye paltry underlings of state,
Ye senators who love to prate;
Ye rascals of inferior note,
Who, for a dinner, sell a vote;
Ye pack of pensionary peers,
Whose fingers itch for poets' ears;
Ye bishops, far removed from saints,
Why all this rage? Why these complaints?
Why against printers all this noise?
This summoning of blackguard boys?
Why so sagacious in your guesses?
Your effs, and tees, and arrs, and esses!
Take my advice; to make you safe,
I know a shorter way by half.
The point is plain; remove the cause;
Defend your liberties and laws.
Be sometimes to your country true,
Have once the public good in view:
Bravely despise champagne at court,
And choose to dine at home with port:
Let prelates, by their good be...

Jonathan Swift