JONATHAN SWIFT.
Born, 1667. | Died, October 29, 1745.
The State-Coach.
(In Imitation of the Manner of Dr. Swift.)
Once on a time a grand lord-may’r
(No matter when, no matter where)
Kept a huge pompous coach of state,
Of most enormous bulk and weight;
And on the times of public joy,
To wheel about the pond’rous toy,
He kept besides a noble string
Of horses, fit to draw a king;
All of high blood, all beasts of breeding,
But vicious from excess of feeding;
Of course, intractable and heady,
Yet in one point perversely steady,
Viz., each good steed was true and hearty
To his own interest and his party;
Nay, this curs’d spirit hast possest
To such degree each sturdy beast,
That not a single chuff would move
From threats or soothing, fear or love,
Unless in partnership he drew
With those of his confed’rate crew,
Though thus the clumsy and the clever,
Ill-pair’d oft hobbled on together.
Hence when the coach was order’d out,
Buck would refuse to match with Stout,
At least one inch would not proceed
Unless impetuous Di’mond led,
Who when of late our grand premier,
And then uncheck’d in his career,
While he tugg’d on the vast machine
O’er rough and smooth, through thick and thin,
Would often with their rapid turn
Make the wheels creak and axle burn;
Yet give the haughty devil his due,
Though bold his quarterings, they were true:
Yes, let us not his skill disparage,
He never once o’erset the carriage,
Though oft he whirl’d it, one would think,
Just o’er the pitfall’s headlong brink;
While at each hair-breadth ’scape, his foes
Would cry, there, there, by G—d, it goes!
And as stiff Buck would ne’er submit
But on these terms to champ the bit,
Stout in return was full as sullen,
Nor the same harness would he pull in,
Unless by cautious Duke preceded,
Or by pacific Sawney headed:
The body-coachman, hence unable
To rule the refractory stable,
Was forc’d to leave the saucy brutes
To terminate their own disputes;
And when they deign’d to wear the traces,
Chuse their own partners and their places;
But, tir’d themselves with these distractions,
Resolv’d at last the several factions
(For in their anger all had wit)
Some terms of union to admit,
Which, that more firmly they might bind,
Drawn in this form by all were sign’d:
We the contracting steeds, (exprest
Here was the name of each prime beast,
As Di’mond, Sawney, Duke) however
Determined not to work together,
Yet by these presents are agreed
Together peaceably to feed:
On this account then (work or play)
Let each receive his ’custom’d pay;
Confirm we by concurring votes
To each his daily peck of oats:
Besides, omit we by no means
Proportion’d quantities of beans;
Nor yet warm mashes when we chuse ’em,
Nor Bracken’s balls when pleas’d to use ’em;
For as ’tis likely from full feeding,
At times, diseases may be breeding,
’Tis right for ev’ry horse that is sick,
Who finds the food should find the physic.
These previous articles now clos’d,
Here prudent Di’mond interpos’d,
Long fam’d for his contempt of pelf,
And views which center’d not in self,
“How chang’d at present!” (or no more
Wears he that mask which once he wore.)
Quoth he (wrapp’d round with many a clout
His greasy heels, the horses gout)
“Snug now ourselves and our dependants,
Shall we neglect our dear descendants?
Nay e’en from Scripture we should learn
For our own households due concern;
Lest we incur then, to our shame,
Of infidels th’ accursed name.
Provide we next (if such your will is)
For all your present colts and fillies;
No matter, tho’ for this supply
We drain our master’s coffers dry:
Stretch we the grant too, if ye please,
E’en to the future colts of these;
Then to their coltlings in entail,
’Till issue of such issue fail:
Well, bullies, are you all content?”
Each steed here snorted his assent;
And now adjusted their pretensions,
And thus secur’d their long-breath’d pensions,
Like porkers fattening in the sty,
On their fat sides at ease they lie;
Uplitter’d to their ears in straw,
Yet not a single beast will draw.
Dogs! to reduce you all to reason,
I wish, at least, for some short season,
That in your present master’s stead,
Too meek to tame so rough a breed,
Too mild to curb your factious spirit,
Too good to treat ye as ye merit,
Stern boisterous Cromwell from the dead,
Or bluff old Hal would lift his head,
That I might see you bound and skip
Beneath their disciplining whip;
That I might see your pamper’d hides
Flogg’d, ’till from out your furrow’d sides
Spun, in each part, the sizy blood,
Too rich from sloth and copious food;
That thus let out at all these sluices,
It may purge off its vicious juices;
While I should hear you, at each jerk,
Cry, “Lash no more, we’ll work, we’ll work.”
From The Foundling Hospital for Wit, Vol. IV. 1786.
The Happy Life of a Country Parson.
(In Imitation of Dean Swift.)
Parson, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the bishop’s blessing.
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there’s need;
October store, and best Virginia,
Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea;
Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank’d;
For which thy patron’s weekly thank’d;
A large Concordance, bound long since;
Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince;
A chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in;
The Polyglott—three parts,—my text:
Howbeit,—likewise—now to my next:
Lo here the Septuagint,—and Paul,
To sum the whole,—the close of all.
He that has these, may pass his life,
Drink with the Squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays—if he will;
Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with churchwardens about pews,
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor Swift.
Alexander Pope.
In the works of Oliver Goldsmith two poetical imitations of Dean Swift appear, one is entitled “A new Simile in the Manner of Swift,” the other, and the more amusing, is given below.
The Logicians Refuted.
Logicians have but ill defin’d,
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione preditum;
But for my soul I cannot credit ’em.
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide,
Than reason, boasting mortal’s pride;
And that brute beasts are far before ’em,
Deus est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,
No politics disturb the mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who’s in or out at court;
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;
Fraught with invective they ne’er go
To folks at Pater-Noster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other’s throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape.
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators,
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master’s manners still contract,
And footmen, lords, and dukes can act,
Thus at the court both great and small,
Behave alike, for all ape all.
Oliver Goldsmith.
