Gulliveriana or, a fourth volume of miscellanies. Being a Sequel of the Three Volumes published by Pope and Swift. To which is added, Alexanderiana; or, A Comparison between the Ecclesiastical and Poetical Pope. And many Things, in Verse and Prose, relating to the latter. With an ample Preface; and a Critique on the Third Volume of Miscellanies lately publish'd by those two facetious Writers [by Jonathan Smedley] |
 |
|
An EPISTLE to his Grace the Duke of Grafton, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
|
 | Gulliveriana |  |
An EPISTLE to his Grace the Duke of Grafton, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
Non Domus & Fundus—
Hor.
Hor.
It was my Lord, the dextrous Shift,
Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now, St. Patrick's sawcy Dean,
With Silver Verge, and Surplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's Grace,
In looser Rhyme, to beg a Place:
A Place he got, yclyp'd a Stall,
And eke a Thousand Pounds withal;
And, were he a less witty Writer,
He might, as well, have got a Mitre.
Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now, St. Patrick's sawcy Dean,
With Silver Verge, and Surplice clean,
109
In looser Rhyme, to beg a Place:
A Place he got, yclyp'd a Stall,
And eke a Thousand Pounds withal;
And, were he a less witty Writer,
He might, as well, have got a Mitre.
Thus I, The Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble Lays, my Thanks to offer,
Approach your Grace, with grateful Heart;
My Thanks and Verse both void of Art:
Content with what your Bounty gave;
No larger Income do I crave:
Rejoicing, that, in better Times,
GRAFTON requires my Loyal Rhimes.
Proud! while my Patron is Polite,
I likewise to the Patriot write:
Proud! that, at once, I can commend,
King George's and the Muse's Friend.
Endear'd to Britain: And to Thee
(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the Sea)
Endear'd by twice three anxious Years;
Endear'd by Guardian Toils and Cares!
In humble Lays, my Thanks to offer,
Approach your Grace, with grateful Heart;
My Thanks and Verse both void of Art:
Content with what your Bounty gave;
No larger Income do I crave:
Rejoicing, that, in better Times,
GRAFTON requires my Loyal Rhimes.
Proud! while my Patron is Polite,
I likewise to the Patriot write:
Proud! that, at once, I can commend,
King George's and the Muse's Friend.
Endear'd to Britain: And to Thee
(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the Sea)
110
Endear'd by Guardian Toils and Cares!
But where shall SMEDLEY make his Nest,
And lay his wandring Head to Rest?
Where shall he find a decent House,
To treat his Friends, and chear his Spouse?
Oh! Tack, my Lord, some pretty Cure,
In wholesome Soil, and Æther pure.
The Garden stor'd with artless Flowers
In every Angle, shady Bowers.
No gay Parterre, with costly Green,
Within the ambient Hedge be seen;
Let Nature, freely, take her Course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful Force:
No Shears shall check her sprouting Vigour:
Nor shape the Yews to antick Figure.
A limpid Brook shall Trouts supply
In May, to take the mimick Fly;
Round a small Orchard may it run,
Whose Apples redden to the Sun:
Let all be snug and warm and neat,
For Fifty-turn'd, a fit Retreat:
A little Euston may it be:
Euston I'll carve on every Tree:
But then, to keep it in Repair,
My Lord—Twice Fifty Pounds a Year
Will barely do: But if your Grace
Could make them Hundreds—Charming Place!
Thou then would'st shew another Face.
And lay his wandring Head to Rest?
Where shall he find a decent House,
To treat his Friends, and chear his Spouse?
Oh! Tack, my Lord, some pretty Cure,
In wholesome Soil, and Æther pure.
The Garden stor'd with artless Flowers
In every Angle, shady Bowers.
No gay Parterre, with costly Green,
Within the ambient Hedge be seen;
Let Nature, freely, take her Course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful Force:
No Shears shall check her sprouting Vigour:
Nor shape the Yews to antick Figure.
A limpid Brook shall Trouts supply
In May, to take the mimick Fly;
Round a small Orchard may it run,
Whose Apples redden to the Sun:
111
For Fifty-turn'd, a fit Retreat:
A little Euston may it be:
Euston I'll carve on every Tree:
But then, to keep it in Repair,
My Lord—Twice Fifty Pounds a Year
Will barely do: But if your Grace
Could make them Hundreds—Charming Place!
Thou then would'st shew another Face.
Clogher! far North, my Lord, it lies,
Beneath High Hills, and Angry Skies.
One shivers with the Artick Wind,
One hears the Polar Axis grind.
Good John, indeed, with Beef and Claret,
Makes the Place warm, that one may bear it;
He has a Purse to keep a Table,
And eke a Soul as hospitable:
My Heart is good, but Assets fail
To fight with Storms of Snow and Hail;
Besides, the Country's thin of People,
Who seldom meet, but at the Steeple:
The Strapping Dean, that's gone to Down,
Ne'er nam'd the Thing without a Frown.
When much fatigued with Sermon-Study,
He felt his Brain grow dull and muddy,
No fit Companion could be found,
To push the lazy Bottle round:
Sure then, for want of better Folks,
To pledge his Clerk was Orthodox.
Beneath High Hills, and Angry Skies.
One shivers with the Artick Wind,
One hears the Polar Axis grind.
Good John, indeed, with Beef and Claret,
Makes the Place warm, that one may bear it;
He has a Purse to keep a Table,
And eke a Soul as hospitable:
My Heart is good, but Assets fail
To fight with Storms of Snow and Hail;
112
Who seldom meet, but at the Steeple:
The Strapping Dean, that's gone to Down,
Ne'er nam'd the Thing without a Frown.
When much fatigued with Sermon-Study,
He felt his Brain grow dull and muddy,
No fit Companion could be found,
To push the lazy Bottle round:
Sure then, for want of better Folks,
To pledge his Clerk was Orthodox.
Ah! how unlike to Gerard-street,
Where Beaus and Belles, in Parties meet;
Where gilded Chairs and Coaches throng,
And jostle, as they trowl along;
Where Tea and Coffee, hourly, flow;
And Gape-seed does, in Plenty, grow;
And Griz (no Clock more certain) cries,
Exact at Seven, Hot Mutton Pyes:
There Lady Luna, in her Sphere,
Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now she wains, and as 'tis said,
Keeps sober Hours, and goes to Bed.
There—But 'tis endless to write down,
All the Amusements of the Town:
And Spouse will think herself quite undone;
To trudge to Clogher, from sweet London;
And Care we must our Wives to please,
Or else—we shall be ill at Ease.
Where Beaus and Belles, in Parties meet;
Where gilded Chairs and Coaches throng,
And jostle, as they trowl along;
Where Tea and Coffee, hourly, flow;
And Gape-seed does, in Plenty, grow;
And Griz (no Clock more certain) cries,
Exact at Seven, Hot Mutton Pyes:
There Lady Luna, in her Sphere,
Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near;
113
Keeps sober Hours, and goes to Bed.
There—But 'tis endless to write down,
All the Amusements of the Town:
And Spouse will think herself quite undone;
To trudge to Clogher, from sweet London;
And Care we must our Wives to please,
Or else—we shall be ill at Ease.
You see, my Lord, what 'tis I lack,
'Tis only some convenient Tack,
Some Parsonage House, with Garden sweet,
To be my late, my last Retreat;
A decent Church, close by its Side,
There preaching, praying, to Reside,
And, as my Time securely rolls,
To save my own, and others Souls.
'Tis only some convenient Tack,
Some Parsonage House, with Garden sweet,
To be my late, my last Retreat;
A decent Church, close by its Side,
There preaching, praying, to Reside,
And, as my Time securely rolls,
To save my own, and others Souls.
| Gulliveriana | |