390
SWIFT'S POEMS.
It fills my heart with woe,
To think, such ladies fine
Should be reduc'd so low,
To treat a dull divine.
Be by a parson cheated!
Had you been cunning stagers,
You might yourselves be treated
By captains and by majors.
See how corruption grows,
While mothers, daughters, aunts,
Instead of powder'd beaux,
From pulpits choose gallants.
If we, who wear our wigs
With fantail and with snake,
Arc bubbled thus by prigs;
Z—ds! who would be a rake?
Had I a heart to fight,
I'd knock the doctor down;
Or could I read or write,
Egad! I'd wear a gown.
Then leave him to his birch[1];
And at the Rose on Sunday,
The parson safe at church,
I'll treat you with burgundy.
- ↑ Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.
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