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This poem provides us with the fullest insight into the activities and "tyrant"
manner of Swift during his stays with the Achesons. We see further proof that he mixed with people of all stations
and treated (and mocked) them all equally, his Lord and Ladyship as well as Moll the chamber-maid and Gaghagan,
no doubt the same man who chopped down the old thorn (although differently spelt). No household chore is too humble
for him to try his hand at ("Our Thatcher, Ditcher, Gard'ner,
Baily"). He even seems to have been responsible for erecting separate toilets
for ladies and gents. Various references are explained by Swift himself in footnotes to the text. It is here that
he describes Markethill as "A Village near Sir Arthur Acheson's
House, where the Author passed two Summers". He "interfered"
with the work of Robert and Darby, two overseers, of Kit, "My
Lady's Footman", of Dennis the butler, and of Mrs Dixon the housekeeper,
e.g. he helped to make butter for breakfast by "filling
a Bottle with Cream, and shaking it till the Butter comes". "Usher's Post" is glossed as "He sometimes used to walk with the Lady"
and "Tutor" as
"In bad Weather the Author used to direct my Lady in her
Reading". He claims that "The
Author preached but once while he was there" and that "The neighbouring Ladies were no great Understanders of Raillery" (i.e. they took "Offence"). Smedley is "A very stupid,
insolent, factious, deformed, conceited Parson; a vile Pretender to Poetry, preferred by the D. of Grafton for
his Wit."
RESOLV'D my Gratitude to show,
Thrice Rev'rend Dean for all I owe;
Too long I have my Thanks delay'd;
Your Favours left too long unpay'd;
But now in all our Sexes Name,
My artless Muse shall sing your Fame.
INDULGENT you to Female Kind,
To all their weaker Sides are blind;
Nine more such Champions as the Dean,
Would soon restore our antient Reign.
How well to win the Ladies Hearts,
You celebrate their Wit and Parts!
How have I felt my Spirits rais'd,
By you so oft, so highly prais'd!
Transform'd by your convincing Tongue
To witty, beautiful, and young.
I hope to quit that awkward Shame
Affected by each vulgar Dame;
To Modesty a weak Pretence;
And soon grow pert on Men of Sense
To show my Face with scornful Air;
Let others match it if they dare.
IMPATIENT to be out of Debt,
O, may I never once forget
The Bard, who humbly deigns to chuse
Me for the Subject of his Muse.
Behind my Back, before my Nose,
He sounds my Praise in Verse and Prose.
My Heart with Emulation burns
To make you suitable Returns;
My Gratitude the World shall know:
And, see, the Printer's Boy below:
Ye Hawkers all, your Voices lift;
A Panegyrick on Dean Swift.
And then, to mend the Matter still;
By Lady Anne of Market-Hill.
I THUS begin. My grateful Muse
Salutes the Dean in diff'rent Views;
Dean, Butler, Usher, Jester, Tutor;
Robert and Darby's Coadjutor:
And, as you in Commission sit,
To rule the Dairy next to Kit.
IN each Capacity I mean
To sing your Praise. And, first as Dean:
Envy must own, you understand your
Precedence, and support your Grandeur:
Nor, of your Rank will bate an Ace,
Except to give Dean Daniel place.
In you such Dignity appears;
So suited to your State, and Years!
With Ladies what a strict Decorum!
With what Devotion you adore 'um!
Treat me with so much Complaisance,
As fits a Princess in Romance.
By your Example and Assistance,
The Fellows learn to know their Distance.
Sir Arthur, since you set the Pattern,
No longer calls me Snipe and Slattern;
Nor dares he, though he were a Duke,
Offend me with the least Rebuke.
PROCEED we to your preaching next:
How nice you split the hardest Text!
How your superior Learning shines
Above our neighb'ring dull Divines!
At Beggar's-Op'ra not so full Pit
Is seen, as when you mount our Pulpit.
CONSIDER now your Conversation;
Regardful of your Age and Station,
You ne'er was known, by Passion stir'd,
To give the least offensive Word;
But still, whene'er you Silence break,
Watch ev'ry Syllable you speak:
Your style so clear, and so concise,
We never ask to hear you twice.
But then, a Parson so genteel,
So nicely clad from Head to Heel;
So fine a Gown, a Band so clean,
As well become St. Patrick's Dean;
Such reverential Awe express,
That Cow-boys know you by your Dress!
Then, if our neighb'ring Friends come here,
How proud are we when you appear!
With such Address, and graceful Port,
As clearly shows you bred at Court!
Now raise your Spirits, Mr. Dean:
I lead you to a nobler Scene;
When to the Vault you walk in State,
In quality of Butler's Mate;
You, next to Dennis bear the Sway:
To you we often trust the Key:
Nor, can he judge with all his Art
So well, what Bottle holds a quart:
What Pints may best for Bottles pass,
Just to give ev'ry Man his Glass:
When proper to produce the best;
And, what may serve a common Guest.
With Dennis you did ne' er combine,
Not you, to steal your Master's Wine;
Except a Bottle now and then,
To welcome Brother Serving-men;
But, that is with a good Design,
To drink Sir Arthur's Health and mine:
Your Master's Honour to maintain;
And get the like Returns again.
YOUR Usher's Post must next be handled:
How bles't am I by such a Man led!
Under whose wise and careful Guardship,
I now despise Fatigue and Hardship:
Familiar grown to Dirt and Wet,
Though daggled round, I scorn to fret:
From you my Chamber-Damsels learn
My broken Hose to patch and dearn.
Now, as a Jester, I accost you;
Which never yet one Friend has lost you.
You judge so nicely to a Hair,
How far to go, and when to spare:
By long Experience grown so wise,
Of ev'ry Taste to know the Size;
There's none so ignorant or weak
To take Offence at what you speak.
Whene'er you joke, 'tis all a Case;
Whether with Dermot, or His Grace;
With Teague O'Murphy, or an Earl;
A Dutchess or a Kitchen Girl.
With such Dexterity you fit
Their sev'ral Talents to your Wit,
That Moll the Chamber-maid can smoak,
And Gaghagan take ev'ry Joke.
I Now become your humble Suitor,
To let me praise you as my Tutor.
Poor I, a Savage bred and born,
By you instructed ev'ry Morn,
Already have improv'd so well,
That I have almost learn't to spell:
The Neighbours who come here to dine,
Admire to hear me speak so fine.
How enviously the Ladies look,
When they surprize me at my Book!
And, sure as they're alive, at Night;
As soon as gone, will show their Spight:
Good Lord! what can my Lady mean,
Conversing with that rusty Dean!
She's grown so nice, and so penurious,
With Socratus and Epicurius.
How could she sit the live-long Day,
Yet never ask us once to play?
BUT, I admire your Patience most;
That, when I'm duller than a Post,
Nor can the plainest Word pronounce,
You neither fume, nor fret, nor flounce;
Are so indulgent, and so mild,
As if I were a darling Child.
So gentle in your whole Proceeding,
That I could spend my Life in reading.
You merit new Employments daily:
Our Thatcher, Ditcher, Gard'ner, Baily.
And, to a Genius so extensive,
No Work is grievous or offensive.
Whether, your fruitful Fancy lies
To make for Pigs convenient Styes:
Or, ponder long with anxious Thought,
To banish Rats that haunt our Vault.
Nor have you grumbled, Rev'rend Dean,
To keep our Poultry sweet and clean;
To sweep the Mansion-house they dwell in;
And cure the Rank unsav'ry Smelling.
Now, enter as the Dairy Hand-maid:
Such charming Butter never Man made.
Let others with Fanatick Face,
Talk of their Milk for Babes of Grace;
From Tubs their snuffling Nonsense utter:
Thy Milk shall make us Tubs of Butter.
The Bishop with his Foot may burn it;
But, with his Hand, the Dean can churn it.
How are the Servants overjoy'd
To see thy Deanship thus employ'd!
Instead of poring on a Book,
Providing Butter for the Cook.
Three Morning-Hours you toss and shake
The Bottle, till your Fingers ake:
Hard is the Toil, nor small the Art,
The Butter from the Whey to part:
Behold; a frothy Substance rise;
Be cautious, or your Bottle flies.
The Butter comes; our Fears are ceas't;
And, out you squeeze an Ounce at least.
YOUR Rev'rence thus, with like Success,
Nor is your Skill, or Labour less,
When bent upon some smart Lampoon,
You toss and turn your Brain till Noon;
Which, in its Jumblings round the Skull,
Dilates, and makes the Vessel full:
While nothing comes but Froth at first,
You think your giddy Head will burst:
But, squeezing out four Lines in Rhime,
Are largely paid for all your time.
BUT, you have rais'd your gen'rous Mind
To Works of more exalted Kind.
Palladia was not half so skill'd in
The Grandeur or the Art of Building.
Two Temples of magnifick Size,
Attract the curious Trav'llers Eyes,
That might be envy'd by the Greeks;
Rais'd up by you in twenty Weeks:
Here, gentle Goddess Cloacine
Receives all Off'rings at her Shrine.
In sep'rate Cells the He's and She's
Here pay their Vows with bended Knees:
(For, 'tis prophane when Sexes mingle;
And ev'ry Nymph must enter single;
And when she feels an inward Motion,
Comes fill'd with Rev'rence and Devotion.)
The bashful Maid, to hide her Blush,
Shall creep no more behind a Bush;
Here unobserv'd, she boldly goes,
As who should say, to pluck a Rose.
YE who frequent this hallow'd Scene,
Be not ungrateful to the Dean;
But, duly e'er you leave your Station,
Offer to him a pure Libation;
Or, of his own, or Smedley's Lay,
Or Billet-doux, or Lock of Hay:
And, O! may all who hither come,
Return with unpolluted Thumb.
YET, when your lofty Domes I praise,
I sigh to think of antient Days.
Permit me then to raise my Style,
And sweetly moralize a while.
THEE bounteous Goddess Cloacine,
To Temples why do we confine?
Forbid in open Air to breath;
Why are thine Altars fix't beneath?
WHEN Saturn rul'd the Skies alone,
That golden Age, to Gold unknown;
This earthly Globe to thee assign'd,
Receiv'd the Gifts of all Mankind.
Ten Thousand Altars smoaking round
Were built to thee, with Off'rings crown'd:
And here thy daily Vot'ries plac't
Their Sacrifice with Zeal and Haste:
The Margin of a purling Stream,
Sent up to thee a grateful Steam:
(Though sometimes thou wer't pleas'd to wink,
If Nayads swept them from the Brink)
Or, where appointing Lovers rove,
The Shelter of a shady Grove:
Or, offer'd in some fiow'ry Vale,
Were wafted by a gentle Gale.
There, many a Flow'r abstersive grew,
Thy fav'rite Flow'rs of yellow Hue
The Crocus and the Daffodil,
The Cowslip soft, and sweet Jonquil.
BUT, when at last usurping Jove
Old Saturn from his Empire drove;
Then Gluttony with greasy Paws,
Her Napkin pinn'd up to her Jaws,
With watry Chaps, and wagging Chin,
Brac'd like a Drum her oily Skin;
Wedg'd in a spacious Elbow-Chair,
And on her Plate a treble Share,
As if she ne'er could have enuff;
Taught harmless Man to cram and stuff.
She sent her Priests in Wooden Shoes
From haughty Gaul to make Ragous.
Instead of wholsome Bread and Cheese,
To dress their Soupes and Fricassyes;
And, for our home-bred British Chear,
Botargo, Catsup, and Caveer.
THIS bloated Harpy sprung from Hell,
Confin'd Thee Goddess to a Cell:
Sprung from her Womb that impious Line,
Contemners of thy Rites divine.
First, lolling Sloth in Woollen Cap,
Taking her Ater-dinner Nap:
Pale Dropsy with a sallow Face,
Her Belly burst, and slow her Pace:
And, lordly Gout wrapt up in Furr:
And, wheezing Asthma, loth to stir:
Voluptuous Ease, the Child of Wealth,
Infecting thus our Hearts by Stealth;
None seek thee now in open Air;
To thee no verdant Altars rear;
But, in their Cells and Vaults obscene
Present a Sacrifice unclean
From whence unsav'ry Vapours rose,
Offensive to thy nicer Nose.
Ah! who in our degen'rate Days
As Nature prompts, his Off'ring pays?
Here, Nature never Diff'rence made
Between the Scepter and the Spade.
YE Great ones, why will ye disdain
To pay your Tribute on the Plain?
Why will you place in lazy Pride
Your Altars near your Couches Side?
When from the homeliest Earthen Ware
Are sent up Off'rings more sincere
Than where the haughty Dutchess Locks,
Her Silver Vase in Cedar-Box.
YET, some Devotion still remains
Among our harmless Northern Swains;
Whose Off'rings plac't in golden Ranks,
Adorn our chrystal River's Banks:
Nor seldom grace the flow'ry downs,
With spiral Tops, and Copple-Crowns:
Or gilding in a sunny Morn
The humble Branches of a Thorn.
(So Poets sing, with golden Bough
The Trojan Heroe paid his Vow.)
HITHER by luckless Error led,
The crude Consistence oft I tread.
Here, when my Shoes are out of case,
Unweeting gild the tarnish'd Lace:
Here, by the sacred Bramble ting'd,
My Petticoat is doubly fring'd.
BE Witness for me, Nymph divine,
I never robb'd thee with Design:
Nor, will the zealous Hannah pout
To wash thy injur'd Off'rings out.
BUT, stop ambitious Muse, in time;
Nor dwell on Subjects too sublime.
In vain on lofty Heels I tread,
Aspiring to exalt my Head:
With Hoop expanded wide and light,
In vain I tempt too high a Flight.
Me Phoebus in a midnight Dream
Accosting; said, Go shake your Cream.
Be humbly minded; know your Post;
Sweeten your Tea, and watch your Toast.
Thee best befits a lowly Style:
Teach Dennis how to stir the Guile:
With Peggy Dixon thoughtful sit,
Contriving for the Pot and Spit.
Take down thy proudly swelling Sails,
And rub thy Teeth, and pair thy Nails.
At nicely carving show thy Wit;
But ne'er presume to eat a Bit:
Turn ev'ry Way thy watchful Eye;
And ev'ry Guest be sure to ply:
Let never at your Board be known
An empty Plate except your own.
Be these thy Arts; nor higher Aim
Than what befits a rural Dame.
BUT, Cloacina Goddess bright,
Sleek --- claims her as his Right:
And Smedley, Flow'r of all Divines,
Shall sing the Dean in Smedley's Lines.
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