Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Well! Smedley, since thou wilt expose
Thy self in Verse, as well as Prose,
And teize thy Friends, as well as Foes;
Be patient my Advice to hear:
Rave within thy proper Sphere;
Treat not of Subjects, so Sublime,
In gingling, empty, doggrel Rhime;

But hit thy Genius, suit thy Muse,
And Ballad-swelling Matter chuse;
Chuse something whimsical and odd,
But spare, besure, the Word of God.

Tell us what S---t is now a doing:
Or whineing Politicks or Wooing;
With Sentence grave, or Mirth uncommon,
Pois'ning the Clergy, and the Women;
Do! prithee, flutt'ring, smatt'ring Poet,
For thou, dear Dean, or none must do it.
Shew us, in sympathetic Strain,
The Twin-Conceit of Brother Dean:
He's always Odd, and always New,
Idle, and Humorous as You.

Is he at Ombre or at Tea?
Writing a Pamphlet or a Play?
Sneaking to Nuttly's, in a Chair?
Or riding on the Strand, for Air?

Or, is he lolling on his Elbow,
Thinking what, often, John and Nell do?
Shewing how well he can rehearse
The nastiest Thing in cleanest Verse?
Inventing Whims, preparing Rhimes
To bless the World, in better Times?

Or, is He casting Perkin's Doom,
And prophesying Things to come?
When staunch, old Tories shall take Place?
Or new Apostates yern with Grace?
When Bolingbroke shall be restor'd,
And he himself yclyp'd, My Lord?

Or, is He settling Schemes of Life?
Money, besure; besure, no Wife.
I'th' Morning fixing Water-Gruel,
Tea is damn'd dear, and will not do well.
At Noon no Dishes; No! a Chop
Stole in, by John, from Neighbouring Shop,

Where Diet ready-dress'd is Sold,
A Griskin hot, or Sliver cold;
And, for the Night, a Crust of Bread;
A Pint of Wine, and so to Bed.

Unless, when Winds have blown full East,
And Pacquets bring a Rebel-Guest,
Full-fraught with News; then ev'ry Door
Being shut, to chat their Treason o'er,
And o'er again; full Bowls go round,
With sprightly Mirth and Faction crown'd,
And John is bid to Cut; and Cut on,
Till a whole Yard of Neck of Mutton
He into Chops dissects, to cloy
Th' admiring Family, with Joy.

But, if no News-monger appears,
Or if h'advise from adverse Stars;
Thinly, at Home, the Dean is fed;
Or visits, for his daily Bread;

And John and Nell, with Whey-like Beer,
Brown-Loaf and Cheese, (most hearty Fare,)
Having indulg'd, may take their Ease,
Love, Snore or Sing, or what they please.

Something, like this, methinks, good Dean,
Were better than Heroic Strain:
Or, if your Reverence had thought fit
To shew your Scrub, half-witted Wit,
Amongst the Sword, the Robe, the Gown,
Who, envy'd, shine in Dublin Town,
You might pick out, as thick as Hops,
Poets, Punsters, Ladies, Fops,
Tart, and Bright, and very Dull,
With Paunch well stuff'd, and empty Scull;
And sing 'em making Bulls, and quaffing,
Chewing, Blundring, ever Laughing.

Or, if thou art for meaner Work,
Skim thy Thoughts away to Cork,

Describe thy Bishop, learn'd and wise,
Lab'ring at senseless Niceties:
Inventing Sins, creating Evil,
And making New Work for the Devil;
Whereas the Crimes already past, are
More than Flesh and Blood can master.
However, that thy wonted Care
Of Mother-Church may full appear,
Thy Bishop at his See, disgrace,
And drink THE MEMORY to his Face.

Tell him, The Cure of Souls, of late,
Is deem'd unbred for Priests of State;
That, as no Roof, or Sacred Wall,
Adorns thy Parish, none e'er shall;
And if thy Wish were truly known,
'Tis, That Killalla Church were down.

Or, lest thy Rhiming Vein should cool,
What if thy Friend Sir Richard's—Pool,
Thou didst describe, in Lines and Feet;
For that queer Nick-nack patt and meet;
Inform'd the Town, (this Freek being over)
He would proceed and soon discover,
An Art, long doom'd to deep Despair,
And Shew a Castle in the Air.

Instead of this, from Pindar's Wing,
You Goose-Quills draw; make Welsted sing
Smooth and sad Verses, not his own:
And yet they are, for He alone
Was born to sing the Hero's Doom,
Both past, and present, and to come.

Dear Doctor! 'tis a mournful Thing,
If you Hold-forth just as you sing;
So soft's your Song, so smooth's your Art,
You'll ne'er affect your People's Heart.

And yet, tho' Verses thick do flow,
From your swift Pen, as Winter's Snow,
You left your Work most crudely done,
And ended, just as you begun.

But this Friend Welsted must repair;
Welsted! Blooming, Young, and Fair;
To His Master-stroke, and Touch,
Belongs the Barrier and the Dutch.
Oh! had he done it, or that you
Wou'd, like your self, your Theme pursue.

Peter Browne, D. D.