The public fafety, I foresee,
Henceforth depends alone on me;
And while this vital breath I blow,
Or from above, or from below,
I'll fputter, fwagger, curfe, and rail,
The Tories' terror, fcourge, and flail.

M. Tim, you mistake the matter quite :
The Tories! you are their delight;
And fhould you act a different part,

Be grave and wife, 'twould break their heart.
Why, Tim, you have a tafte I know,
And often fee a puppet show:
Obferve, the audience is in pain,
While Punch is hid behind the scene;
But, when they hear his rufty voice,
With what impatience they rejoice!
And then they value not two ftraws,
How Solomon decides the cause,
Which the true mother, which pretender ;
Nor listen to the witch of Endor.
Should Fauftus, with the Devil behind him,
Enter the ftage, they never mind him:
If Punch, to stir their fancy, fhows
In at the door his monftrous nofe,
Then fudden draws it back again;
O what a pleafure mix'd with pain!
You every moment think an age,
Till he appears upon the ftage:
And firft his bum you fee him clap
Upon the queen of Sheba's lap :

The Duke of Lorraine drew his fword;
Punch roaring ran, and running roar'd,
Reviles all people in his jargon,
And fells the king of Spain a bargain;
St. George himself he plays the wag on,
And mounts aftride upon the dragon;
He gets a thousand thumps and kicks,
Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks;
In every action thrulls his nofe;
The reafon why no mortal knows :
In doleful fcenes that break our heart,
Punch comes, like you, and lets a fart.
There's not a puppet made of wood,
But what would hang him, if they could;
While, teazing all, by all he's teas'd,
How well are the fpectators pleas'd!
Who in the motion have no fhare,
But purely come to hear and ftare;
Have no concern for Sabra's fake,
Which gets the better, faint or snake,
Provided Punch (for there's the jeft)
Be foundly maul'd, and plague the reft.
Thus, Tim, philofophers fuppofe,
The world confifts of Puppet-/hows;
Where petulant conceited fellows
Perform the part of Punchinelloes:
So at this booth, which we call Dublin,

Tim, thou'rt the Punch to ftir up trouble in;
You riggle fidge, and make a rout,
Put all your brother puppets out;
Run on in a perpetual round,
To teaze, perplex, difturb, confound;
Intrude with monkey-grin and clatter,
To interrupt all ferious matter;
Are grown the nuifance of your clan,
Who hate and fcorn you to a man:
But then the lookers on, the Tories,
You ftill divert with merry stories;

They would confent that all the crew
Were hang'd, before they'd part with you.
But tell me, Tim, upon the spot,
By all this toil what haft thou got?
If Tories must have all the fport,

I fear you'll be difgrac'd at court.

T. Got? Dn my blood! I frank my letters, Walk to my place before my betters; And, fimple as 1 now ftand here, Expect in time to be a peer

Got? D-m me! why I got my will!

Ne'er hold my peace, nor ne'er stand still!

I fart with twenty ladies by;

They call me beaft, and what care I?

I bravely call the Tories Jacks,

And fons of whores-behind their backs.
But, could you bring me once to think,
That, when I ftrut, and ftare, and flink,
Revile and flander, fume and storm,
Betray, make oath, impeach, inform,
With fuch a conftant loyal zeal
To ferve myself and commonweal,
And fret the Tories' foul to death,
I did but lofe my precious breath;
And, when I damn my foul to plague 'em,
Am, as you tell me, but their may-game;
Confuine my vitals! they fhall know,

I am not to be treated fo:

I'd rather hang myself by half,
Than give thofe rafcals caufe to laugh.
But how, my friend, can I endure,
Once fo renowned, to live obfcure?
No little boys and girls to cry,
"There's nimble Tim a-pafling by?"
No more my dear delightful way tread
Of keeping up a party hatred ?
Will none the Tory dogs purfue,
When through the ftreets I cry balloo?
Muft all my d---m me's' bloods and wounds!
País only now for empty founds?
Shall Tory rafcals be elected,
Although I fwear them difaffected?
And, when I roar, "A plot, a plot!"
Will our own party mind me not?

So qualify'd to fwear and lie,

Will they not truft me for a spy?

Dear Mullinix, your good advice

I beg you fee the cafe is nice:
Oh were I equal in renown,
Like thee to pleafe this thanklefs town!
Or blefs'd with fuch engaging parts
To win the truant fchool-boys' hearts!
Thy virtues meet their juft reward,
Attended by the fable guard.
Charm'd by thy voice, the 'prentice drops
The fnow-ball deftin'd at thy chops:
Thy graceful fireps, and colonel's air,
Allure the cinder-picking fair.

M. No more---in mark of true affection,
I take thee under my protection:
Your parts are good, 'tis not deny'd:
I wish they had been well apply'd.
But now obferve my council, (viz.)
Adapt your habit to your phiz;
You must no longer thus equip ye,
As Horace fays, optat ephippia;
(There's Latin too, that you may fee
How much improved by Dr.

I have a coat at home, that you may try ;
'Tis just like this, that hangs by geometry.
My hat has much the nicer air;

Your block will fit it to a hair.

That wig, I would not for the world
Have it fo formal and fo curl'd;

Twill be fo oily and fo fleek,

When I have lain in it a week,
You'll find it well prepar'd to take
The figure of toupee and fnake.
Thus drefs'd alike from top to toe,

That which is which 'tis hard to know;
When firft in public we appear,
I'll lead the van, you keep the rear:
Be careful as you walk behind;
Ufe all the talents of your mind;
Be ftudious well to imitate

My portly motion, mien, and gait :
Mark my addrefs, and learn my ftyle,
When to look fcornful, when to fmile;
Nor fputter out your oaths fo faft,
But keep your fwearing to the laft.
Then at our leifure we'll be witty,
And in the streets divert the city;
The ladies from the windows gaping,
The children all our motions aping.
Your converfation to refine,
I'll take you to fome friends of mine;
Choice fpirits, who employ their parts
To mend the world by ufeful arts;
Some cleanfing hollow tubes, to spy
Direct the zenith of the sky;
Some have the city in their care,
From noxious fteams to purge the air;
Some teach us, in thefe dangerous days
How to walk upright in our ways;
Some whofe reforming hands engage
To lafh the lewdness of the age;
Some for the public fervice go
Perpetual envoys to and fro,
Whofe able heads fupport the weight
Of twenty minifters of state.

We fcorn, for want of talk, to jabber
Of parties o'er our bonny clabber:
Nor are we ftudious to inquire,
Who votes for manors, who for hire:
Our care is, to improve the mind
With what concerns all human kind;
The various fcenes of mortal life;
Who beats her husband, who his wife;
Or how the bully at a stroke
Knock'd down the boy, the lantern broke.
One tells the rife of cheese and oatmeal;
Another when he got a hot meal;
One gives advice in proverbs old,
Inftructs us how to tame a fcold;
One shows how bravely Audouin dy'd,
And at the gallows all deny'd;
How by the almanack 'tis clear,
That herrings will be cheap this year.
T. Dear Mullinix, I now lament
My precious time fo long mis-spent,
By nature meant for nobler ends:
Oh! introduce me to your friends!
For whom by birth I was defign'd,
Till politics debas'd my mind:
I give myself entire to you;

TIM AND THE FABLES.

MY meaning will be beft unravel'd, When I premife that Tim has travel'd. In Lucas's by chance there lay The fables writ by Mr. Gay. Tim fet the volume on a table, Read over here and there a fable; And found, as he the pages twirl'd, The monkey who had feen the world: (For Tonfon had, to help the fale, Prefix'd a cut to every tale.) The monkey was completely dreft, The beau in all his airs expreft. Tim, with furprife and pleature ftaring, Ran to the glais, and then comparing His own fweet figure with the print, Diftinguish'd every feature in't,

The twist, the fqueeze, the rump, the fidge in all, Juft as they look'd in the original.

46

By," fays Tim, and let a fart,

"This graver understood his art. "'Tis a true copy l'il fay that for't; "I well remember when I fat for't.

TOM MULLINIX AND DICK.

TOм and Dick had equal fame,

And both had equal knowledge; Tom could write and spell his name, But Dick had feen the college. Dick a coxcomb, Tom was mad,

And both alike diverting; Tom was held the merrier lad,

But Dick the beft at farting. Dick would cock his nofe in fcorn, But Tom was kind and loving; Tom a foot-boy bred and born, But Dick was from an oven.

Dick could neatly dance a jig,

But Tom was beft at borees: Tom would pray for every Whig,

And Dick curfe all the Tories.
Dick would make a woeful noife,

And fcold at an election;
Tom huzza'd the blackguard boys,

And held them in fubjection.
Tom could move with lordly grace,
Dick nimbly skipt the gutter;

Tom could talk with folemn face,
But Dick could better sputter.

See an account of him in the "Intelligencer,”.

As when, from rooting in a bin,
All powder'd o'er from tail to chin,
A lively maggot fallies out,

You know him by his hazel fnout :
So when the grandfon of his grandfire
Forth iffues wriggling, Dick Drawcanfir,
With powder'd rump and back and fide,
You cannot blanch his tawny hide;
For 'tis beyond the power of meal
The gipfy vifage to conceal:
For, as he shakes his wainscot chops,
Down every mealy atom drops,
And leaves the tartar phiz, in show
Like a fresh t--d just dropt on fnow.

CLAD ALL IN BROWN. TO DICK.
IMITATED FROM COWLEY.

FOULEST brute that ftinks below,
Why in this brown doft thou appear?
For, wouldst thou make a fouler show,
Thou must go naked all the year.
Fresh from the mud a wallowing fow,
Would then be not fo brown as thou.
'Tis not the coat that looks fo dun,
His hide emits a foulness out;
Not one jot better looks the fun

Seen from behind a dirty clout:

So t--ds within a glafs enclose,
The glafs will feem as brown as those.
Thou now one heap of foulness art,
All outward and within is foul;
Condenfed filth in every part,

Thy body's clothed like thy foul;
Thy foul, which through thy hide of buff
Scarce gliminers like a dying fnuff.

Old carted bawds fuch garments wear
When pelted all with dirt they shine;
Such their exalted bodies are,

As fhrivel'd and as black as thine.
If thou wert in a cart, I fear
Thou wouldst be pelted worse than they're.

Yet, when we fee thee thus array'd,

The neighbours think it is but juft,

That thou fhouldst take an honest trade,
And weekly carry out the duft.

Of cleanly houfes who will doubt,
When Dick cries, "Duft to carry out?"

DICK'S VARIETY.

DULL uniformity in fools

I hate, who gape and ineer by rules.
You, Mullinix, and flobbering C—,
Who every day and hour the fame are;
That vulgar talent I defpife

Of piffing in the rabble's eyes.'
And when I liften to the noise
Of ideots roaring to the boys;
To better judgments ftill fubmitting,
I own I fee but little wit in:
Such paftimes, when our taste is nice,
Can please at most but once or twice.
But then confider Dick, you'll find
His genius of fuperior kind;
He never muddles in the dirt,
Nor fcowers the streets without a shirt;
Thongh Dick, I dare prefume to say,
Could do fuch feats as well as they.
Dick I could venture every where,
Let the boys pelt him if they dare;
He'd have them tried at the affizes
For priests and Jefuits in difguifes;

Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender,
And lifting troops for the Pretender.

But Dick can fart, and dance, and frisk,

No other monkey half fo brifk;
Now has the speaker by the ears,
Next moment in the House of Peers;
Now fcolding at my lady Euftace,
Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.
Presto! be gone! with t'other hop
He's powdering in a barber's fhop;
Now at the anti-chamber thrusting
His nofe to get the circle just in,
And d-ns his blood, that in the rear
He fees one fingle Tory there:
Then, woe be to my Lord Lieutenant,
Again he'll tell him, and again on't.

AN EPITAPH ON

1

GENERAL GORGES AND LADY MEATH.

John Cuffe of Defart, Efq. married the General's eldest daughter.

ON PADDY's CHARACTER OF THE IN
TELLIGENCER *.

As a thorn bush, or oaken bough,
Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow,
Above the door, at country fair,
Betokens entertainment there;
So bays on poets' brows have been
Set, for a fign of wit within.
And, as ill neighbours in the night
Pull down an ale-house bush for spite;
The laurel fo, by poets worn,
Is by the teeth of envy torn;
Envy, a canker-worm, which tears
Thofe facred leaves that lightning spares.
And now t' exemplify this moral:
Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel
(Which, measur'd on his head, was found
Not long enough to reach half round,
But, like a girl's cockade, was ty'd,
A trophy, on his temple fide;)
Paddy repin'd to fee him wear
This badge of honour in his hair;
And, thinking this cockade of wit
Would his own temples better fit,
Forming his Mufe by Smedley's † model,
Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle,
Pelts him by turns with verfe and profe,
Hums like a hornet at his nose,

At length prefumes to vent his fatire on
The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patroa.
The eagle in the tale, ye know,
Teaz'd by a buzzing wafp below,
Took wing to Jove, and hop'd to reft
Securely in the thunderer's breaft:

In vain; even there, to fpoil his nod, The Spiteful infe& ftung the god.

PARODY

ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY

Written in Latin by himself.

THE very reverend Dean Smedley,
Of dullness, pride, conceit, a medley,
Was equally allow'd to shine,
As poet, fcholar, and divine;
With godliness could well dispense;
Would be a rake, but wanted fente;
Would ftrictly after truth inquire,
Becaufe he dreaded to come nigher.
For liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his thoulder.
To half the world a ftanding jeft;
A perfect nuifance to the rest:
From many (and we may believe him)
Had the beft withes they could give him.
To all mankind a conftant friend,
Provided they had cab to lend.

One thing he did before he went hence,
He left us a laconic fentence,
By cutting of his phrafe, and trimming,
To prove that bifhops were old women.
Poor envy durft not how her phiz,'
She was fo terrified at his.
He waded, without any flame,
Through thick and thin to get a name,
Tried every fharping trick for bread,
And after all he feldom sped.
When fortune favour'd, he was nice;
He never once would cog the dice:
But, if the turn'd against his play,
He knew to stop a quatre trois,
Now found in mind, and found in corpus,
(Says he) though fwell'd like any porpoife,
He heys from hence at forty-four
(But by his leave he finks a feore)
To the East Indies, there to cheat,
Till he can purchase an estate;
Where, after he has fill'd his cheft,
He'll mount his tub, and preach his beft,
And plainly prove, by dint of text,
This world is his, and their's the next.
Left that the reader fhould not know
The bank where laft he fet his toe,
'Twas Greenwich. There he took a flip,
And gave his creditors the flip.
But left chronology fhould vary,
Upon the Ides of February;

In feventeen hundred eight and twenty,
To Fort St. George a pediar went he.
Ye fates, when all he gets is fpent,
RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT!

THE ANSWER, BY DR. SWIFT.
LINDSAY mistakes the matter quite,
And honeft Paulus judges right.
Then, why thefe quarrels to the fun,
Without whofe aid you're all undone ?
Did Paulus e'er complain of fweat?
Did Paulus e'er the fun forget;
The influence of whofe golden beams
Soon licks up all unfavoury fteams?
The fun, you fay, his face hath kifs'd:
It has; but then it greas'd his fift.
True lawyers, for the wifeft ends,
Have always been Apollo's friends.
Not for his fuperficial powers

Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers;
Not for infpiring poets' brains
With pennylefs and ftarveling ftrains;
Not for his boafted healing art;
Not for his fkill to fhoot the dart;
Nor yet because he fweetly fiddles;
Nor for his prophecies in riddles:
But for a more fubftantial caufe---
Apollo's patron of the laws;
Whom Paulus ever muft adore,
As parent of the golden ore,
By Phoebus, an incestuous birth,
Begot upon his grand-dame Earth;
By Phoebus firft produc'd to light;
By Vulcan form'd fo round and bright:
Then offer'd at the thrine of juftice,
By clients to her priests and truftees,
Nor, when we fee Aftræa ftand
With even balance in her hand,
Muft we fuppofe fhe hath in view,
How to give every man his due;
Her fcales you fee her only hold,
To weigh her priests' the lawyers gold,

Now, fhould I own your cafe was grievous, Poor fweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? 'Tis very true, and none denies,

At leaft, that fuch complaints are wife:
'Tis wife, no doubt, as clients fat you more,
To cry, like ftatefmen, Quanta patimur!
But, fince the truth muft needs be ftretched,
To prove that lawyers are fo wretched;
This paradox I'll undertake,

For Paulus' and for Lindiay's fake;
By topics, which, though I abomine 'em,
May ferve as arguments ad hominem:
Yet I difdain to offer thote
Made ufe of by detracting foes.
I own, the curfes of mankind
Sit light upon a lawyer's mind:

wards one of the juflices of the court of common that time an eminent pleader in Dublin, after pleas.