Classic Poem

Ye damnable dunces, ye criblers, what mean ye,
To fall with your dogg'rel on Doctor D — n-y?
Such poor silly critics as you may go whistle;
You ne'er can run down his familiar Epistle,
That brilliant Epistle which glitters and shines
In music, in numbers, in diction, in lines,
In substance, in spirit, in force and in wit,
In compliments such as Augustus might fit;
Though what he has said of his patron is faint —
Nor wonder, since no man his virtues can paint,
For no poet ever attempts to express
A man truly great but he must make him less.
Besides he divided; he gave the one half
Of all the encomiums to himself and Sir Ralph.
O! Wonderful prowess of genius, when he
With so little trouble could compliment three!
His Lord and the Speaker shall live in his poem;
Six thousand years after all readers shall know 'em,
While Pindar and Horace and Virgil forgotten
Shall be, like their heroes, sunk, buried and rotten;
For all other authors his writings shall banish;
Like ghosts at the sight of the daylight they'll vanish.
His glorious Epistle so shining and high
Shall be like his Phoebus, that lord of the sky,
Who, when on his chrysolite throne he appears,
A star dare not peep in the sky for its ears.
Now a word, by the by, for I think it my duty,
Since you're so mistaken, to point out each beauty.
Observe with what judgment he shows this, our isle;
A patron so artful our cares can beguile.
How that very peevish, cross grumbler, the Dean,
Does nothing at Court but of courtiers complain;
Such impudence 'tis, in a man of his station,
To put in one word for the good of the nation,
That he with submission sits silently list'ning,
Like a clerk when the parson holds forth at a christ'ning.
But ventures at last, like a man of true spirit,
To cry out, " My Lord, you must know I have merit
Much more than a thousand, and is it not hard
That virtue so wondrous should have no reward
But a pitiful pittance, five hundred a year,
At a time that our very potatoes are dear?
My Lord, what I tell you is true to a tittle,
Or may I be banished from licking your spittle. "
" Why then, " quoth my Lord, " since you give me this trouble,
I tell you, in short, you are every way double —
As poet, as doctor, as rector, as vicar,
As dealer, as builder, as planter, as quicker,
But if you've a mind to be triple, rely on
My word, and I'll make you a second Geryon. "
Ye critic malicious, now read what he says
In those matchless verses on Fermanagh ways,
Where all the rough pebbles are polished so fine,
Like em'ralds they sparkle, like diamonds they shine.
Whoever hereafter that fell on these stones
Shall think it an honor to break half his bones.
Now see the finesse of a true politician:
He'd change for the worse, and he'd thrash like a Priscian;
From thumping the cushion to make those that nod,
Instead of a sermon he'd brandish a rod.
But Charley (though Charley) is not such a tool,
To change for more trouble a sinecure school.
Four hundred per annum, not one shilling under,
To preach in two churches twelve long miles asunder,
And wade it a-horseback in dirt to the knee,
When Paddy can better wade through it than he.
Observe his address; with what artful submission,
He tells his rich patron his grievous condition:
Quite ruined and bankrupt, reduced to a farthing,
By making too much of a very small garden.
By squand'ring his money in dribs to the poor,
He's ready to leave the key under the door;
And grieves that his patron has so much to give,
While he (more's the pity) is shifting to live.
Again he solicits in manner most nice,
By another more subtle and cunning device:
Because he has heard that his patron's well read,
He lays by his belly and begs for his head;
For writing three riddles had cost him such pains,
That he scarce had remaining three scruples of brains.
For want of some money, he's quite off the hooks
To pay off old scores and to buy him new books,
To rebuild a house that he pulled down already,
And to buy a fine ribband to give a fine lady.
These are but a few that I chose from the rest,
Though not one thought in it but can stand the test.
Nay more, I will venture to swear it surpasses
All poems that ever were hatched at Parnassus.
Ev'n Horace to Caesar, to this is but barely
A thing called a poem; and Swift to his Harley,
That poem so valued, so often read over,
While Pat's is a reading may sleep in its cover.