Twopence he had gotten by begging, that's all;
One bought him a brafb, and one a black ball;
For clouts at a lofs he could not be much,
The clothes on his back as being but fuch;
Thus vamp'd and accoutred, with clouts, ball, and
He gallantly ventur'd his fortune to pufh: [brub,
Vefpafian thus, being befpatter'd with dirt,
Was men'd to be Rome's emperor for't.
But as a wife fiddler is noted, you know,
To have a good couple of ftrings to one bow;
So Hartley judiciously thought it too little,
To live by the fweat of his hands and his spittle :
He finds out another profeflion as fit,
And ftraight he becomes a retailer of wit.
One day he cried-"Murders and fongs, and great
news!"

Another as loudly" Here blacken your shoes!"
A: Domvile's full often he fed upon bits.
For winding of jacks up, and turning of fpits;
Lick'd all the plates round, had many a grubbing,
And now and then got from the cook-maid a
crubbing:

Sach batings effect upon bim could have none;
The dog will be patient that's ftruck with a bone.
Sr Thomas, obferving this Hartley withal
Se expert and fo active at brufbes and ball,

I Was mov'd with compaflion, and thought it a pity
A youth fhould be loft, that had been fo witty:
Without more ado, he vamps up my fpark,
And now we'll fuppofe him an eminent clerk;
Suppofe him an adept in all the degrees
Offcribbling cum dasko, and hooking of fees;
Scrpofe him a miser, attorney per bill;
Suppofe him a courtier-fuppofe what you will-
Yet would you believe, though I fwore by the Bible,
That he took up two news-boys for crying the libel?

ISING the man of courage try'd,
Oer-run with ignorance and pride,
Whe boldly hunted out disgrace
With canker'd mind and hideous face;
The first who made (let none deny it)
The libel-vending rogues be quiet.

The fact was glorious, we must own,
Fet Hartley was before unknown,
Contemn'd I mean:-for who would choose
Se vile a fubject for the mufe?

Twas once the nobleft of his wishes To fill his paunch with feraps from difhes, For which he'd parch before the grate, Or wind the jack's flow-rifing weight (Such toils as belt his talents fit),

Or polish foes, or turn the fpit:

† Sir T. Domvile, patentee of the Hanaper-office.

But, unexpectedly grown rich in
'Squire Domvile's family and kitchen,
He pants to eternize his name,
And takes the dirty road to fame;
Believes that perfecuting wit
Will prove the fureft way to it;
So, with a Colonel at his back,
The libel feels his first attack;
He calls it a feditious paper,
Writ by another Patriot Drapier;
Then raves and blunders nonfenfe thicker
Than aldermen o'ercharg'd with liquor;
And all this with defign, no doubt,
To hear his praifes hawk'd about;
To fend his name through every street,
Which erft he roam'd with dirty feet;
Well pleas'd to live to future times,
Though but in keen fatiric rhymes.

So Ajax, who, for aught we know,
Was juftice many years ago,
And minding then no earthly things,
But killing libellers of kings;
Or, if he wanted work to do,
To run a bawling news-boy through;
Yet he, when wrapp'd up in a cloud,
Entreated Father Jove aloud,
Only in light to fhow his face,
Though it might tend to his difgrace.

And fo th' Ephefian villain fir'd
The temple which the world admir'd,
Contemning death, defpifing fhame,
To gain an ever odious name.

DR. SHERIDAN's BALLAD ON BALLY-
SPELLIN*.

ALL you that would refine your blood,
As pure as fam'd Llewellyn,
By waters clear, come every year,
To drink at Ballyfpellin.

Though pox or itch your skins enrich
With rubies paft the telling,

"Twill clear your skin before you've been
A month at Ballyfpellin.

If lady's cheek be green as leek

When the comes from her dwelling,
The kindling rofe within it glows
When fhe's at Ballyfpellin.

The footy brown, who comes from town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;

Then back fhe goes to kill the beaux
By dint of Ballyfpellin.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair

As Rofe, or Bright Dunkelling;
And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Were he at Ballyfpellin.

We men fubmit as they think fit,
And here is no rebelling:

* Colonel Ker, a mere Scotchman, Lieutenant-Colonel to Lord Harrington's regiment of dragoons, who made a news-boy evidence against the printer. IRISH ED.

A famous Spa in the county of Kilkenny, where the Doctor had been to drink the waters with a favourite Lady.

The reafon's plain; the ladies reign,
They're queens at Ballyfpellin.
By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such defperate foes as dare oppose
Their power at Ballyfpellin.

Cold water turns to fire, and burns,

I know, because I fell in

A ftream which came from one bright dame Who drank at Ballyfpellin.

Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,

To bring their Anne or Nell in With fo much grace, I'm fure no place Can vie with Ballyfpellin.

No politics, no fubtle tricks,

No man his country felling:

We eat, we drink; we never think
Of thefe at Ballyfpellin.

The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind,
Do all come here pell-mell in ;

And they are fure to work their cure
By drinking Ballyfpellin.

Though dropfy fills you to the gills,

From chin to toe though fwelling;

Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
A cure at Ballyfpellin.

Death throws no darts through all these

No fextons here are knelling: Come, judge and try, you'll never die,

But live at Ballyspellin;

Except you feel darts tipt with fteel, Which here are every belle in: When from their eyes fweet ruin flies, We die at Ballyfpellin.

parts,

Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care,
Your fight, your tafte, your smelling,
Your ears, your touch, transported much
Each day at Ballyfpellin.

Within this ground we all fleep found,
No noify dogs a-yelling;
Except you wake, for Calia's fake,
All night at Ballyspellin.
There all you fee, both he and fhe,
No lady keeps her cell in ;
But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Ballyfpellin.

My rhymes are gone; I think I've none,
Unless I should bring hell in;
But, fince I'm here, to heaven fo near,
I can't at Ballyfpellin!

ANSWER.

BY DR. SWIFT *.

DARE you difpute, you faucy brute, And think there's no refelling

This answer was refented by Dr. Sheridan, as an affront on himself and the lady be attended to the spa.

Your fcurvy lays, and fenfelefs praise
You give to Ballyfpellin ?

Howe'er you bounce, I here pronounce,
Your medicine is repelling;

Your water's mud, and four's the blood,
When drunk at Ballyfpellin.

Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs,
You thither are compelling,

Will back be fent, worfe than they went,
From nafty Ballyfpellin.

Llewellyn why? As well may I
Name honeft doctor Pellin;

So hard fometimes you tug for rhymes,
To bring in Ballyspellin.

No fubject fit to try your wit,

When you went colonelling,

But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues
That met at Ballyfpellin.

Our laffes fair, fay what you dare,
Who fowing make with fhelling,
At Market-hill more beaux can kill,
Than yours at Ballyfpellin.

Would I was whipt, when Sheelah ftript
To wash herself our well in;

A bum fo white ne'er came in fight,
At paltry Ballyfpellin

Your mawkins there fmocks hempen wear,

Of Holland not an ell in ;

No, not a rag, whate'er you brag,

Is found at Ballyfpellin.

But Tom will prate at any rate,
All other nymphs expelling;
Because he gets a few grifettes
At loufy Ballyfpellin.

There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane,

Juft o'er against The Bell-inn;
Where can you meet a lafs fo fweet,
Round all your Ballyfpellin?

We have a girl deferves an earl;
She came from Enniskillin:
So fair, fo young, no fuch among
The belies at Ballyspellin.

How would you ftare to fee her there,
The foggy mift difpelling.

That clouds the brows of every blow fe
Who lives at Ballyfpellin!

Now as I live, I would not give

A ftiver for a skellin,

To towfe and kifs the faireft mifs
That leaks at Ballyfpellin.

Whoe'er will raife fuch lies as thefe
Deferves a good cudgelling;
Who falfely boafts of belles and toafts,
At dirty Ballyfpellin.

My rhymes are gone, to all but one,
Which is, our trees are felling;
As proper quite as thofe you write,
To force in Ballyfpellin.

HORACE, PART OF BOOK I. SAT. VI.

PARAPHRASED.

noify Tom fhould in the fenate prate,

i- That he would anfwer both for church and ftate; * And, further to demonftrate his affection, *Would take the kingdom into his protection;" All mortals must be curious to inquire, Who could this coxcomb be, and who his fire? *What! thou, the spawn of him who fham'd our *That traitor, affaffin, informer vile! [ifle, Though by the female fide & you proudly bring, *To mend your breed, the murderer of a king; *What was thy grandfire § but a mountaineer, *Who held a cabin for ten groats a year; *Whofe mafter Moore || preferv'd him from the halter,

For healing cows; nor could he read the Pfalter! Durk thou, ungrateful, from the fenate chase *Thy founder's grandfon ** and ufurp his place? Juft heaven! to fee the dunghill bastard brood Survive in thee, and make the proverb good tt! * Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,

* In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"

ON A PRINTER's BEING SENT TO NEW-
GATE.

ETTER We all were in our graves
Than live in flavery to slaves,

Wire than the anarchy at fea,
There fishes on each other prey;

Pere every trout can make as high rants

Der his inferiors as our tyrants,
adfwagger while the coaft is clear:
fut, fhould a lordly pike appear,
Away you fee the varlet fcud,

ide his coward fnout in mud.
Ts, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
tare not venture to approach;
till has impudence to rife,
And, like Domitian, leap at flies.

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT *. WITH a whirl of thought opprefs'd, I funk from reverie to rest. An horrid vifion feiz'd my head, their dead! Jove, arm'd with terrors, burst the skies, And thunder roars, and lightning flies! Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown, The world stands trembling at his throne! While each pale finner hung his head, Jove, nodding, fhook the heavens, and faid: "Offending race of human kind, "By nature, reafon, learning, blind; "You who, through frailty, ftepp'd afide; "And you who never fell, through pride; "You who in different fects were fhamm'd, "And come to fee each other damn'd "(So fome folk told you, but they knew "No more of Jove's defigns than you); "The world's mad bufinefs now is o'er, "And I refent thefe pranks no more. "I to fuch blockheads fet my wit! "I damn fuch fools!Go, go, you're bit."

I faw the graves give up

VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN ON HIS
BIRTH-DAY,

WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND, BY DR.
J. SICAN †.
-Horace Speaking.]

You've read, Sir, in poetic ftrain,
How Varus and the Mantuan fwain
Have on my birth-day been invited
(But I was forc'd in verfe to write it)
Upon a plain repaft to dine,
And tafte my old Campanian wine;
But I, who all punctilios hate,
Though long familiar with the great,
Nor glory in my reputation,

Am come without an invitation ;

And, though I'm us'd to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to tafte lernian;
But fearing that you might difpute
(Had I put on my common fuit)}
My breeding and my politeffe,
I vifit in a birth-day drefs;
My coat of pureft Turkey red,
With gold embroidery richly fpread;
To which I've fure as good pretenfions
As Irifh lords who ftarve on penfions.
What though proud minifters of state
Did at your anti-chamber wait;
What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns
Have at your levee paid attendance;
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid afide the general's staff
And public cares, with you to laugh;

Yet I fome friends as good can name,
Nor lefs the darling fons of Fame;
For fure my Pollio and Maecenas
Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Though they made Lewis beg a parley;
And as for Mordaunt, your lov'd hero,
I'll match him with my Drufus Nero.
You'll boaft, perhaps, your favourite Pope;
But Virgil is as good, I hope.

I own indeed I can't get any
To equal Helham and Delany;
Since Athens brought forth Socrates,

A Grecian ifle Hippocrates:
Since Tully liv'd before my time,
And Galen blefs'd another clime.

You'll plead perhaps, at my request,

To be admitted as a guest,

"Your hearing's bad!"-But why fuch fears?

I fpeak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reafon wifely took
The form you fee me in, a book.
Attack'd by flow-devouring moths,
By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths;
By Bentley's notes, my deadlieft foes,
By Creech's rhymes and Dunfter's profe;
I found my boasted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire:
Yet ftill they but in vain affail'd;
For, had their violence prevail'd,
And in a blast destroy'd my fame,

They would have partly mifs'd their aim;
Since all my fpirit in thy page
Defies the Vandals of this age.
"Tis yours to fave thefe fmall remains
From future pedants' muddy brains,
And fix my long-uncertain fate,

You best know how-which way?-TRANSLATE.

ON PSYCHE".

AT two afternoon for our Pfyche inquire,
Her tea-kettle's on, and her fmock at the fire:
So loitering, fo active; fo bufy, fo idle;
Which hath the moft need of, a fpur or a bridle?
Thus a greyhound out-runs the whole pack in a race,
Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm
place.

She gives you fuch plenty, it puts you in pain;
But ever with prudence takes care of the main.
To pleafe you, the knows how to choose a nice bit;
For her taste is almost as refin'd as her wit.

To oblige a good friend, the will trace every market.

[cark it. It would do your heart good, to fee how the will Yet beware of her arts; for it plainly appears, She faves half her victuals by feeding your ears.

Yet, fince juft heaven the Duke's ambition moch
Since all he got by fraud is loft by ftocks,
His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant and reve
The Duke and Dean feem near upon a level.
Oh! wert thou not a Duke, my good duke Hu
[bum fr
From bailiff's claws thou fcarce could keep t
A Duke to know a Dean! go, fmooth thy crow
Thy brother (far thy betters) wore a gown.
Well, but a Duke thou art; fo pleas'd the king
Oh! would his Majesty but add a ftring!

phry,

ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY

MAKE Rundle bishop! fie for shame!
An Arian to ufurp the name !

A bifhop in the ifle of Saints!

How will his brethren make complaints!
Dare any of the mitred hoft
Confer on him the Holy Ghost;
In mother church to breed a variance,
By coupling Orthodox with Arians?

Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew,
What is there in it ftrange or new?
For, let us hear the weak pretence
His brethren find to take offence;
Of whom there are but four at most,
Who know there is an Holy Ghost:
The reft, who boaft they have conferr'd it,
Like Paul's Ephefians, never heard it;
And, when they gave it, well 'tis known,
They gave what never was their own.

Rundle a bishop! well he may; He's ftill a Chriftian more than they.

We know the fubject of their quarrels; The man has learning, fenfe, and morals.

There is a reason ftill more weighty;
"Tis granted he believes a Deity;
Has every circumftance to pleafe us,
Though fools may doubt his faith in Jefus.
But why should he with that be loaded,
Now twenty years from court exploded?
And is not this objection odd

From rogues who ne'er believ'd a God?
For liberty a champion stout,
Though not fo gospel-ward devout;
While others, hither fent to fave us,
Came but to plunder and enslave us ;
Nor ever own'd a power divine,
But Mammon and the German line.

Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?
Who show'd a better jus divinum?
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice refus'd epifcopari.

Our bishop's predeceffor, Magus,
Would offer all the fands of Tagus,
Or fell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay-on hands:
But all his gold could not avail
To have the fpirit fet to fale.
Said furly Peter, « Magus, pr'ythee,
"Be gone: thy money perish with thee."
Were Peter now alive, perhaps
He might have found a score of chaps,

Promoted to that fee, in February 1734-5

As I ftroll the city, oft I

See a building large and lofty,

Not a bow-fhot from the college;

Half the globe from fenfe and knowledge:
By the prudent architect,

Plac'd against the church direct,
Making good thy grand-dame's jest,
*Near the church"-you know the rest.
Tell us, what the pile contains?
Many a head that holds no brains.
Thefe demoniacs let me dub
With the name of Legion-club.
Such affemblies, you might fwear,
Meet when butchers bait a bear;
Such a noife, and fuch harranguing,
When a brother thief is hanging:
Such a rout and fuch a rabble
Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble;
Such a crowd their ordure throws
On a far lefs villain's nofe.

Could I from the building's top
Hear the rattling thunder drop,
While the devil upon the roof
(If the devil be thunder-proof)
Should with poker fiery red
Crack the ftones, and melt the lead;
Drive them down on every skull,
While the den of thieves is full;
Quite deftroy the harpies' neft;
How might then our ifle be blet!
For divines allow that God
Sometimes makes the devil his rod;
And the gofpel will inform us,
He can punith fins enormous.

Yet thould Swift endow the schools, For his lunatics and fools,

With a rood or two of land,
I allow the pile may stand.
You perhaps will ask me, Why so?
But it is with this provifo :
Since the house is like to laft,
Let the royal grant be pafs'd,
That the club have right to dwell
Each within his proper cell,
With a paffage left to creep in,
And a hole above for peeping.
Let them, when they once get in,
Sell the nation for a pin;
While they fit a-picking ftraws,
Let them rave at making laws;
While they never hold their tongue.
Let them dabble in their dung:
Let them form a grand committee,
How to plague and starve the city;
Let them ftare, and ftorm, and frown,
When they fee a clergy gown;
Let them, ere they crack a loufe,
Call for th' orders of the houfe;
Let them, with their golling quills,
Scribble fenfelefs heads of bills.
We may, while they ftrain their throats.
Wipe our as with their votes.
Let Sir Tom *, that rampant
afs,
Stuff his guts with flax and grass;
But, before the priest he fleeces,
Tear the bible all to pieces:
At the parfons, Tom, halloo, boy,
Worthy offspring of a fhoe-boy,
Footman, traitor, vile feducer,
Perjur'd rebel, brib'd accufer,
Lay thy paltry privilege afide,
Sprung from papifts, and a regicide;
Fall a-working like a mole,
Raife the dirt about your hole.

Come, affift me, mufe obedient!
Let us try fome new expedient;
Shift the scene for half an hour,
Time and place are in thy power.
Thither, gentle mufe, conduct me;
I fhall afk, and you inftruct me.

See, the mufe unbars the gate!
Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!
All ye gods who rule the foul!
Styx, through hell, whofe waters roll!
Let me be allow'd to tell
What I heard in yonder hell.

Near the door an entrance gapes,
Crowded round with antic fhapes,
Proverty, and grief, and care,
Caufeles joy, and true despair;
Difcord periwige'd with fnakes,
See the dreadful ftrides fhe takes!
By this odious crew befet,

I began to rage and fret,

And refolv'd to break their pates,
Ere we enter'd at the gates;
Had not Clio in the nick
Whifper'd me, "Lay down your stick."
What, faid I, is this the mal-baufe?
Thefe, fhe anfwer'd, are but fhadows,
Phantoms bodiless and vain,
Empty vifions of the brain.

*Sir Thomas Prendergral, a privy counceller.