English Satires

by Unknown

JONATHAN SWIFT.

(1667-1745.)

[XXVI.] MRS. FRANCES HARRIS' PETITION.

Written in the year 1701. The Lord Justices addressed were the Earls of Berkeley and of Galway. The "Lady Betty" mentioned in the piece was the Lady Betty Berkeley. "Lord Dromedary", the Earl of Drogheda, and "The Chaplain", Swift himself. The author was at the time smarting under a sense of disappointment over the failure of his request to Lord Berkeley for preferment to the rich deanery of Derry.

TO THEIR EXCELLENCIES THE LORD JUSTICES OF IRELAND. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF FRANCES HARRIS, WHO MUST STARVE, AND DIE A MAID, IF IT MISCARRIES. HUMBLY SHOWETH,

That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold,

And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and gold:

So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night,

I was resolved to tell my money, and see if it was right.

Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock,

Therefore all the money I have, which God knows, is a very small stock,

I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock.

So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it, my smock was unript,

And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt:

Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed;

And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my stupid head!

So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light:

But when I search'd and miss'd my purse, law! I thought I should have sunk outright.

"Lawk, madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?" "Indeed," says I, "never worse:

But pray, Mary, can you tell what I've done with my purse?"

"Lawk, help me!" said Mary; "I never stirred out of this place:"

"Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case."

So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm:

However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think,

But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink.

So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round,

And in a corner of Mrs. Dukes's box, tied in a rag the money was found.

So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a-swearing:

Then my dame Wadger came: and she, you know, is thick of hearing:

"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have had?"

"Nay," said she, "my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad;

For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail."

"Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail."

Says Cary, says he, "I've been a servant this five-and-twenty years come spring,

And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing."

"Yes," says the Steward, "I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's,

Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of gooseberries."

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief,

(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief,)

However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about:

"Mrs. Dukes," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happen'd out:

'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse;

But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house.

'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a great hole in my wages:

Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages.

Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands,

That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."

"The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!"

So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had called her all to nought.

So you know, what could I say to her any more?

I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.

Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man:

"No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon."

So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart,

Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part.

So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,

"Parson," said I, "can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?"

(Now you must know, he hates to be called parson, like the devil.)

"Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;

If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see:

You are no text for my handling; so take that from me:

I was never taken for a conjuror before, I'd have you to know."

"Law!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so;

You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife,

I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life."

With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,

"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.

Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "Law!" said I, "what shall I do?

I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!"

Then my Lord called me: "Harry," said my Lord, "don't cry,

I'll give you something towards your loss;" and, says my Lady, "so will I."

"O, but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to?"

For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you.

The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection:

And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner both night and day,

Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.

[XXVII.] ELEGY ON PARTRIDGE.

This was written to satirize the superstitious faith placed in the predictions of the almanac-makers of the period. Partridge was the name of one of them—a cobbler by profession. Fielding also satirized the folly in Tom Jones. The elegy is upon "his supposed death", which drew from Partridge an indignant denial.

Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,

Though we all took it for a jest:

Partridge is dead; nay more, he died

Ere he could prove the good 'squire lied.

Strange, an astrologer should die

Without one wonder in the sky!

Not one of his crony stars

To pay their duty at his hearse!

No meteor, no eclipse appear'd!

No comet with a flaming beard!

The sun has rose, and gone to bed,

Just as if Partridge were not dead;

Nor hid himself behind the moon

To make a dreadful night at noon.

He at fit periods walks through Aries,

Howe'er our earthly motion varies;

And twice a year he'll cut the equator,

As if there had been no such matter.

Some wits have wonder'd what analogy

There is 'twixt cobbling and astrology;

How Partridge made his optics rise

From a shoe-sole to reach the skies.

A list the cobbler's temples ties,

To keep the hair out of his eyes;

From whence 'tis plain, the diadem

That princes wear derives from them:

And therefore crowns are nowadays

Adorn'd with golden stars and rays:

Which plainly shows the near alliance

'Twixt cobbling and the planets science.

Besides, that slow-pac'd sign Bootes,

As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis:

But Partridge ended all disputes;

He knew his trade, and call'd it boots.

The horned moon, which heretofore

Upon their shoes the Romans wore,

Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,

And whence we claim our shoeing-horns,

Shows how the art of cobbling bears

A near resemblance to the spheres.

A scrap of parchment hung by geometry

(A great refinement in barometry)

Can, like the stars, foretell the weather;

And what is parchment else but leather?

Which an astrologer might use

Either for almanacs or shoes.

Thus Partridge by his wit and parts

At once did practise both these arts:

And as the boding owl (or rather

The bat, because her wings are leather)

Steals from her private cell by night,

And flies about the candle-light;

So learned Partridge could as well

Creep in the dark from leathern cell,

And in his fancy fly as far

To peep upon a twinkling star.

Besides, he could confound the spheres,

And set the planets by the ears;

To show his skill, he Mars could join

To Venus in aspect malign;

Then call in Mercury for aid,

And cure the wounds that Venus made.

Great scholars have in Lucian read,

When Philip king of Greece was dead,

His soul and spirit did divide,

And each part took a different side:

One rose a star; the other fell

Beneath, and mended shoes in hell.

Thus Partridge still shines in each art,

The cobbling and star-gazing part,

And is install'd as good a star

As any of the Cæsars are.

Triumphant star! some pity show

On cobblers militant below,

Whom roguish boys in stormy nights

Torment by pissing out their lights,

Or thro' a chink convey their smoke

Inclos'd artificers to choke.

Thou, high exalted in thy sphere,

May'st follow still thy calling there.

To thee the Bull will lend his hide,

By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd:

For thee they Argo's hulk will tax,

And scrape her pitchy sides for wax;

Then Ariadne kindly lends

Her braided hair to make thee ends;

The point of Sagittarius' dart

Turns to an awl by heav'nly art;

And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,

Will forge for thee a paring-knife.

For want of room by Virgo's side,

She'll strain a point, and sit astride,

To take thee kindly in between;

And then the signs will be thirteen.