EPIGRAM.

DEAN SWIFT. Born, 1667, Died, 1745.

The "witty Dean" as he has been justly called, was born in Dublin. His fame is too large and wide-spread to require any elaborate notice of the speciality of his genius here. But it should be noted, in a book so essentially Irish, that his memory must be honoured not only for his genius but for his unflinching patriotism, persevered in, as his friend Doctor Delany declares, "under many severe trials and bitter persecutions, to the manifest hazard of his liberty and fortune." As his greatest works are in prose, the highest examples of his pen cannot be given in a volume of verse, and song was not a mode of the lyre in which the Dean indulged; but some of his lighter effusions, which Doctor Johnson (who was not over-given to laudation) praises for their humour, raciness, and gaiety, may fitly take their place in such a collection-his epigrams especially, which exhibit that satiric power for which his name is so celebrated.

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,
He took to the streets and fled for his life:
Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And sav'd him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventur'd to give him some sober advice-
But Tom is a person of honour so nice,

Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,
That he sent to all three a challenge next morning;
Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life;
Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife,

ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD;

OR,

THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY.†

DEAN SWIFT.

WHEN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat
To form some beauty by a new receipt,
Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene,
Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene:
From which ingredients first the dexterous boy
Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy.
The Graces from the Court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:
These Venus clears from every spurious grain
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain;

Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd;
Then call'd the happy composition Floyd.

† An elegant Latin version of this poem is in the sixth volume of Dryden's Miscellanies.

BEAUTY AND TIME.

SAMUEL LOVER. From "Songs and Ballads."

TIME met Beauty one day in her garden,
Where roses were blooming fair;

Time and Beauty were never good friends,

So she wondered what brought him there.
Poor Beauty exclaim'd, with a sorrowful air,
"I request, Father Time, my sweet roses you'll spare,"
For Time was going to mow them all down,
While Beauty exclaim'd—with her prettiest frown,
"Fie, Father Time!"

66 'Well,” said Time, “at least let me gather
A few of your roses here,

'Tis part of my pride to be always supplied
With such roses the whole of the year."
Poor Beauty consented, tho' half in despair;
And Time, as he went, ask'd a lock of her hair;
And as he stole the soft ringlet so bright,

He vow'd 'twas for love—but she knew 'twas for spite.
Oh fie, Father Time!

Time went on and left Beauty in tears;

He's a tell-tale the world well knows:-
So he boasted to all of the fair lady's fall,
And show'd the lost ringlet and rose.

So shock'd was poor Beauty to find that her fame
Was ruin'd-tho' she was in nowise to blame,

That she droop'd, like some flow'r that is torn from its clime,
And her friends all mysteriously said-" It was Time."
Oh fie, Father Time!

CORINNA.

DEAN SWIFT. Written, 1712.

THIS day (the

year I dare not tell)

Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
Into the world Corinna fell,

And he endow'd her with his art.

But Cupid with a Satyr comes:
Both softly to the cradle creep;

Both stroke her hands and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.

Then Cupid thus: "this little maid

Of love shall always speak and write."

"And I pronounce" (the Satyr said)

"The world shall feel her scratch and bite."

SONG.

Dr. PARNELL.

THYRSIS, a young and amorous swain,
Saw two, the beauties of the plain,
Who both his heart subdue:
Gay Colia's eyes were dazzling fair,
Sabina's easy shape and air

With softer magic drew.

He haunts the stream, he haunts the grove,
Lives in a fond romance of love,

And seems for each to die;
Till, each a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Coelia's shape ran down,
And she Sabina's eye.

Their envy made the shepherd find
Those eyes which love could only blind;

So set the lover free;

No more he haunts the grove or stream,
Or with a true-love knot and name
Engraves a wounded tree.

"Ah, Cœlia!" sly Sabina cried,

"Though neither love, we're both denied;
Now, to support the sex's pride,

Let either fix the dart."

"Poor girl," said Cœlia, " say no more;
For should the swain but one adore,
That spite which broke his chains before
Would break the other's heart."

LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW-PANE AT CHESTER.

DEAN SWIFT.

The Dean seems to have been roused to anger at Chester by the extortion of his landlord, if we may judge by some lines beginning

And his rage seems to have been inflated to the degree of consigning the whole population to destruction, as follows:

This ballad, which is of a homely cast, was intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being the possessor of three COWS. Its author's name is unknown; but its age can be determined, from the language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century. That it was formerly very popular in Munster may be concluded from the fact, that the phrase, "Easy, oh, woman of three cows" has become a saying in that province, on any occasion upon which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of a boastful or consequential person.-Translator's

note.

O WOMAN of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle !
O don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle.
I have seen—and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser,
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser;
And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows;
Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants,
'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants !
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning! Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning— Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

Think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted-
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!

He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse-
Then ask yourself, should you be proud? good Woman of Three Cows!

O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in

story

Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory— Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!

Th' O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?

Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas,
Because, inagh! you've got three cows-one more, I see, than she has;
That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows,
But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

THE SUMMING UP.

Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing;
And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,
If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

* Munster.

+ My grief.

+ Forsooth,

The most comical piece of pride I ever heard of was that attributed to a Dublin basketwoman by an incensed rival, who thus accused her:-"Bad luck to your impidence, Moll Doyle !-there's no standin' the consait o' you since you got that new sthrap to your basket." Mrs. Doyle, with a disdainful toss of her head, replied,-" More grandeur to me!"