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.

But Weston has a new-cast gown
    On Sundays to be fine in,
And, if she can but win a crown,
    'Twill just new dye the lining.

"With these is Parson Swift,[5]
    Not knowing how to spend his time,
Does make a wretched shift,
    To deafen them with puns and rhyme."

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

On A Candle

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Ballad

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Carberiae Rupes

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Robin And Harry.[1]

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

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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

Imitation Of Part Of The Sixth Satire Of The Second Book Of Horace.[1]

I often wish'd that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land, set out to plant a wood.
    Well, now I have all this and more,
I ask not to increase my store;[2]
But should be perfectly content,
Could I but live on this side Trent;[3]
Nor cross the channel twice a-year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
    I must by all means come to town,
'Tis for the service of the crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse."
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost a hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found,
It is but so much more in debt,
And that ...

Jonathan Swift

Copy Of The Birth-Day Verses

ON MR. FORD[1]


Come, be content, since out it must,
For Stella has betray'd her trust;
And, whispering, charged me not to say
That Mr. Ford was born to-day;
Or, if at last I needs must blab it,
According to my usual habit,
She bid me, with a serious face,
Be sure conceal the time and place;
And not my compliment to spoil,
By calling this your native soil;
Or vex the ladies, when they knew
That you are turning forty-two:
But, if these topics shall appear
Strong arguments to keep you here,
I think, though you judge hardly of it,
Good manners must give place to profit.
    The nymphs, with whom you first began,
Are each become a harridan;
And Montague so far decay'd,
Her lovers now must all be paid;
And every belle that since ...

Jonathan Swift

An Apology To Lady Carteret (Verses Written During Lord Carteret's Administration Of Ireland)

As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. T...

Jonathan Swift

The Country Life

PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE,
THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort.
George, his eldest son.
Nim, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting.
Dan, Mr. Jackson, a parson.
Gaulstown, the Baron's seat.
Sheridan, a pedant and pedagogue.
Delany, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor
of Ireland.
Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal.
Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady.


Thalia, tell, in sober lays,
How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days;
And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow,
Yet Neget quis carmina Gallo?
Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I
Not Sheridan,...

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