Three merry lads you own we are;
'Tis very true, and free from care:
But envious we cannot bear,
believe, sir:
For, were all forms of beauty thine,
Were you like Nereus soft and fine,
We should not in the least repine,
or grieve, sir.
Then know from us, most beauteous Dan,
That roughness best becomes a man;
'Tis women should be pale, and wan,
and taper;
And all your trifling beaux and fops,
Who comb their brows, and sleek their chops,
Are but the offspring of toy-shops,
mere vapour.
We know your morning hours you pass
To cull and gather out a face;
Is this the way you take your glass?
Forbear it:
Those loads of paint upon your toilet
Will never mend your face, but spoil it,
It looks as if you did parboil it:
Drink claret.
Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean,
That they're like Cynthia in the wane,
Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean,
or pullet:
See what by drinking you have done:
You've made your phiz a skeleton,
From the long distance of your crown,
t' your gullet.
A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME
Wearied with saying grace and prayer,
I hasten'd down to country air,
To read your answer, and prepare
reply to't:
But your fair lines so grossly flatter,
Pray do they praise me or bespatter?
I must suspect you mean the latter—
Ah! slyboot!
It must be so! what else, alas!
Can mean by culling of a face,
And all that stuff of toilet, glass,
and box-comb?
But be't as 'twill, this you must grant,
That you're a daub, whilst I but paint;
Then which of us two is the quaint-
er coxcomb?
I value not your jokes of noose,
Your gibes and all your foul abuse,
More than the dirt beneath my shoes,
nor fear it.
Yet one thing vexes me, I own,
Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone;
To be called lean by a skeleton,
who'd bear it?
'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends,
You seem to praise, to make amends,
And yet, before your stanza ends,
you flout me,
'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes,
For every one that knows me, knows
That I have nothing like my nose
about me:
I pass now where you fleer and laugh,
'Cause I call Dan my better half!
O there you think you have me safe!
But hold, sir;
Is not a penny often found
To be much greater than a pound!
By your good leave, my most profound
and bold sir,
Dan's noble metal, Sherry base;
So Dan's the better, though the less,
An ounce of golds worth ten of brass,
dull pedant!
As to your spelling, let me see,
If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry,
Good spelling-master: your crany
has lead in't.
ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME
Three days for answer I have waited,
I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated
And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated
poetaster?
Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose
Of thy dimension's fit for prose;
But every one that knows Dan, knows
thy master.
Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines,
And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1]
Thy fame, thy genius, now declines,
proud boaster.
I hear with some concern your roar
And flying think to quit the score,
By clapping billets on your door
and posts, sir.
Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant,
I'm grieved to hear your banishment,
But pleased to find you do relent
and cry on.
I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff,
But now I'll secret keep your stuff;
For know, prostration is enough
to th' lion.
[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.—F.]