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.

November 30, 1667

October 19, 1745

English

Jonathan Swift

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An Epistle Upon An Epistle

FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY


As Jove will not attend on less,
When things of more importance press:
You can't, grave sir, believe it hard,
That you, a low Hibernian bard,
Should cool your heels a while, and wait
Unanswer'd at your patron's gate;
And would my lord vouchsafe to grant
This one poor humble boon I want,
Free leave to play his secretary,
As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1]
I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print,
Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't."
And, after several readings over,
It shines most in the marble cover.
    How could so fine a taste dispense
With mean degrees of wit and sense?
Nor will my lord so far beguile
The wise and learned of our isle;
To ma...

Jonathan Swift

An Excellent New Ballad Or, The True English Dean[1] To Be Hanged For A Rape. 1730

Our brethren of England, who love us so dear,
    And in all they do for us so kindly do mean,
(A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year,
    For the good of our church, a true English dean.
A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape,
The worst you can say, he committed a rape.

In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester,
    And there he grew fond of another man's wife;
Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her;
    But she valued her honour much more than her life.
She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape
To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape.

The dean he pursued, to recover his game;
    And now to attack her again he prepares:
But the company stood in defence of the dame,
    They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'...

Jonathan Swift

An Excellent New Song, Upon The Declarations Of The Several Corporations Of The City Of Dublin


AGAINST WOOD'S HALFPENCE

To the tune of "London is a fine town," & c.


O Dublin is a fine town
    And a gallant city,
For Wood's trash is tumbled down,
    Come listen to my ditty,
        O Dublin is a fine town, & c.

In full assembly all did meet
    Of every corporation,
From every lane and every street,
    To save the sinking nation.
        O Dublin, & c.

The bankers would not let it pass
    For to be Wood's tellers,
Instead of gold to count his brass,
    And fill their small-beer cellars.
        O Dublin, & c.

And next to them, to take his coin
    The Gild would not submit,
They all did go, and all did join,
    And so their names they writ.
        O Dublin, & c....

Jonathan Swift

An Excellent New Song; Being The Intended Speech Of A Famous Orator Against Peace.

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...

Jonathan Swift

An Excellent New Song; Upon His Grace Our Good Lord Archbishop Of Dublin

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by his opposition to Wood's coinage.

BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL

I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;
Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't.
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason.
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more.
Th...

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

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 Invitation, By Dr. Delany, In The Name Of Dr. Swift

Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call,
To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all;
Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care,
For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare.
I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies,
As friend Virgil has it, I've aliud mercedis;
For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale;
And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal;
And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood,
I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good:
Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health:
High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5]

Jonathan Swift

Another (Epigram On The Busts)

Louis the living learned fed,
And raised the scientific head;
Our frugal queen, to save her meat,
Exalts the heads that cannot eat.

Jonathan Swift

Another (Epigrams On Windows)

By Satan taught, all conjurors know
Your mistress in a glass to show,
And you can do as much:
In this the devil and you agree;
None e'er made verses worse than he,
    And thine, I swear, are such.

Jonathan Swift

Another (Epigrams On Windows)

That love is the devil, I'll prove when required;
    Those rhymers abundantly show it:
They swear that they all by love are inspired,
    And the devil's a damnable poet.

Jonathan Swift

Another Reply, By Sheridan

My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise
Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes;
As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies!
I cannot lie down, but immediately rise,
To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise.
Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies,
But his head and his tail new succour supplies,
To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs.
The wing of a goose before me now lies,
Which is both shield and sword for such weak enemies.
Whoever opposes me, certainly dies,
Though he were as valiant as Condé or Guise.
The women disturb me a-crying of pies,
With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs.
By this, Sir, you find, should we rhyme for a prize,
That I'd gain cloth of gold, when you'd scarce merit frize.

Jonathan Swift

Another Written Upon A Window Where There Was No Writing Before (Epigrams On Windows)

Thanks to my stars, I once can see
A window here from scribbling free!
Here no conceited coxcombs pass,
To scratch their paltry drabs on glass;
Nor party fool is calling names,
Or dealing crowns to George and James.

Jonathan Swift

Another, At Chester (Epigrams On Windows)

The church and clergy here, no doubt,
    Are very near a-kin;
Both weather-beaten are without,
    And empty both within.

Jonathan Swift

Another, At Chester (Epigrams On Windows)

    The walls of this town
    Are full of renown,
And strangers delight to walk round 'em:
    But as for the dwellers,
    Both buyers and sellers,
For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em.

Jonathan Swift

Another, At Chester (Epigrams On Windows)

My landlord is civil,
But dear as the d - l:
Your pockets grow empty
With nothing to tempt ye;
The wine is so sour,
'Twill give you a scour,
The beer and the ale
Are mingled with stale.
The veal is such carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I have felt,
For I live on a smelt.

Jonathan Swift

Another, At Holyhead [1] (Epigrams On Windows)

O Neptune! Neptune! must I still
Be here detain'd against my will?
Is this your justice, when I'm come
Above two hundred miles from home;
O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains,
Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains,
Only your godship to implore,
To let me kiss your other shore?
A boon so small! but I may weep,
While you're like Baal, fast asleep.

Jonathan Swift

Answer To Dr. Delany's Fable Of The Pheasant And Lark.

1730


In ancient times, the wise were able
In proper terms to write a fable:
Their tales would always justly suit
The characters of every brute.
The ass was dull, the lion brave,
The stag was swift, the fox a knave;
The daw a thief, the ape a droll,
The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl:
A pigeon would, if shown by Æsop,
Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up.
Far otherwise a great divine
Has learnt his fables to refine;
He jumbles men and birds together,
As if they all were of a feather:
You see him first the Peacock bring,
Against all rules, to be a king;
That in his tail he wore his eyes,
By which he grew both rich and wise.
Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice,
A Peacock chose for flight and voice;
Did ever mort...

Jonathan Swift

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