Ay And No; A Tale From Dublin.[1]

WRITTEN IN 1737

At Dublin's high feast sat Primate and Dean,
Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean:
Quoth Hugh of Armagh, "The mob is grown bold."
"Ay, ay," quoth the Dean, "the cause is old gold."
"No, no," quoth the Primate, "if causes we sift,
This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift."
The smart one replied, "There's no wit in the case;
And nothing of that ever troubled your grace.
Though with your state sieve your own notions you split,
A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit.
It's matter of weight, and a mere money job;
But the lower the coin the higher the mob.
Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk,
That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke.
The Irish dear joys have enough common sense,
To treat gold reduced like Wood's copper pence.
It is a pity a prelate should die without law;
But if I say the word - take care of Armagh!"

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

Answer To Dr. Sheridan's Prologue, And To Dr. Swift's Epilogue. In Behalf Of The Distressed Weavers. By Dr. Delany.

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

A Tale Of A Nettle[1]

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

The Run Upon The Bankers[1]

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

A Satirical Elegy; On The Death Of A Late Famous General[1]

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

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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

The Author Upon Himself

A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of the Author's from London. - Dublin Edition.

        *        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *        *
        *        *    By an old    -    -    pursued,
A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2]
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes
On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise;
And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod,
Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God.
So clowns on scholars as on wizards look,
And take a folio for a conj'ring book.
    Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime:
Nay, 'twas affirm'd, he sometimes dealt in rhyme;
Humour and mirth had place in all he writ;
He reconcil'd divinity and wit:
He moved and bow'd, and talk'd w...

Jonathan Swift

Dean Swift At Sir Arthur Acheson's In The North Of Ireland

The Dean would visit Market-Hill,
    Our invitation was but slight;
I said - "Why let him, if he will:"
    And so I bade Sir Arthur write.

His manners would not let him wait,
    Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
    And so we see him at our gate
    Three days before he was expected,

After a week, a month, a quarter,
    And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
    Though not a soul would have him stay.

I've said enough to make him blush,
    Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,
    Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, my dear, may let him know,
    In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
    And that he may command the ...

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

An Excellent New Song[1] Upon The Late Grand Jury

Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it? - A judge or a peer.[2]
    Which nobody can deny.

This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
    Which nobody can deny.

O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
    Which nobody can deny.

So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
    Which nobody can deny.

But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collo...

Jonathan Swift

Parody On A Character Of Dean Smedley, Written In Latin By Himself[1]

The very reverend Dean Smedley,
Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley,
Was equally allow'd to shine
As poet, scholar, and divine;
With godliness could well dispense,
Would be a rake, but wanted sense;
Would strictly after Truth inquire,
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
For Liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his shoulder.
To half the world a standing jest,
A perfect nuisance to the rest;
From many (and we may believe him)
Had the best wishes they could give him.
To all mankind a constant friend,
Provided they had cash to lend.
One thing he did before he went hence,
He left us a laconic sentence,
By cutting of his phrase, and trimming
To prove that bishops were old women.
Poor Envy durst not show her phiz,
She was so ter...

Jonathan Swift