JONATHAN SWIFT.

[Born in Dublin, 30 November 1667; died there, 19 October 1745].

DEAN SWIFT'S CURATE.'

I MARCHED three miles through scorching sand,
With zeal in heart, and notes in hand;
I rode four more to great St. Mary,
Using four legs when two were weary
To three fair virgins I did tie men
In the close bands of pleasing Hymen;
I dipped two babes in holy water,
And purified their mothers after.
Within an hour and eke an half,

I preached three congregations deaf,

Which, thundering out with lungs long-winded,

I chopped so fast that few there minded.

My emblem, the laborious sun,

Saw all these mighty labours done

Before one race of his was run.

All this performed by Robert Hewit;

What mortal else could e'er go through it?

A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY

OF THE GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR OF LARACOR, UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH TILL HIS PALACE WAS REBUILT.

AN oaken broken elbow-chair;

A caudle-cup without an ear;

A battered shattered ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that's cracked across, around
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;

A wig, with hanging quite grown grey;
A curtain, worn to half a stripe;

A pair of bellows, without pipe ;

A dish, which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottom, wooden platter,--
One is for meal, and one for water.
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;
A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all:
And thus his household goods you have all.
These to your lordship, as a friend,
Till you have built, I freely lend :
They'll serve your lordship for a shift;
Why not, as well as Doctor Swift?

ON THE

LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK.

WHOEVER pleaseth to enquire
Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
The grey old fellow, poet Joe,
The philosophic cause will show.
Once on a time, a western blast
At least twelve inches overcast,
Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all;
Which came with a prodigious fall,
And, tumbling topsy-turvy round,
Lit with its bottom on the ground,
For by the laws of gravitation
It fell into its proper station.

This is the little strutting pile
You see just by the churchyard stile.
The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the steeple gave a shock:
From whence the neighbouring farmer calls
The steeple, Knock; the Vicar, Walls.
The vicar once a week creeps in,
Sits with his knees up to his chin;
Here cons his notes, and takes a whet,
Till the small ragged flock is met.
A traveller who by did pass
Observed the roof behind the grass,
On tiptoe stood, and reared his snout,
And saw the parson creeping out;
Was much surprised to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low.
A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forced for safety to alight,
And, stepping o'er the fabric-roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof
Warburton took it in his noddle
This building was designed a model
Or of a pigeon-house, or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.
Then Mrs. Johnson 1 gave her verdict,
And every one was pleased that heard it :
"All that you make this stir about
Is but a still which wants a spout."
The Rev. Dr. Raymond guessed
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,

1 Stella.

It might have been a pygmy's tomb.
The doctor's family came by,

And little miss began to cry,

"Give me that house in my own hand!"
Then madam bade the chariot stand,
Called to the clerk, in manner mild;
"Pray reach that thing here to the child,-
That thing, I mean, among the kale ;
And here's to buy a pot of ale."
The clerk said to her, in a heat;
"What, sell my master's country-seat,
Where he comes every week from town?
He would not sell it for a crown.'
"Poh, fellow, keep not such a pother,
In half an hour thou'lt make another."
Says Nancy; "I can make for miss
A finer house ten times than this ;
The Dean will give me willow-sticks,
And Joe my apronful of bricks."

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID.

IN ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happened on a winter-night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village passed,
To a small cottage came at last;
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
Called in the neighbourhood Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night.
And then the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,

And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepped aside to fetch 'em drink,
Filled a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful !) they found
'Twas still replenished to the top,
As if they had not touched a drop.
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frightened to the heart,
And just began to cry "What art?"
Then softly turned aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errant.
"Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said.
"No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But, for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drowned;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.'

They scarce had spoke when fair and soft
The roof began to mount aloft ;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climbed slowly after.

The chimney widened, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below.
In vain; for a superior force
Applied at bottom stops its course:
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,

The number made the motion slower.

The flier, though't had leaden feet,

Turned round so quick you scarce could see't;

But, slackened by some secret power,

Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,

Had never left each other's side:

The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone,
But, up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household-cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row

Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.
The ballads pasted on the wall,

Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The little children in the wood,

Now seemed to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter ;
And, high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.1

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paused a while,
Returned them thanks in homely style;
Then said; "My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please."
He spoke; and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;

But, being old, continued just

1 Of the twelve tribes of Israel, which in country-churches were sometimes distinguished by the ensigns appropriated to them by Jacob on his deathbed.

L