TRANSLATION

A thistle is the Scottish arms,
Which to the toucher threatens harms,
What are the arms of Waterford,
That no man touches—­but a ——?

VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1]

Atria longa patent.  Sed nec cenantibus usquam
  Nec somno locus est.  Quam bene non habitas! 
MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.

See, here’s the grand approach,
That way is for his grace’s coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;[2]
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design’d,
They never smoke in any wind: 
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state. 
Thanks, sir, cried I, ’tis very fine,
But where d’ye sleep, or where d’ye dine? 
I find, by all you have been telling,
That ’tis a house, but not a dwelling.

[Footnote 1:  Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough.  See vol. i, p. 74.—­W.E..B_]

[Footnote 2:  A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed over two of the portals of Blenheim House; “for the better understanding of which device,” says Addison, “I must acquaint my English reader that a cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation,” and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem.  The “Spectator,” No. 59.—­W.  E. B.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY

Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, ’tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it?—­A judge or a peer.[2]
      Which nobody can deny.

This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset. 
      Which nobody can deny.

O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience. 
      Which nobody can deny.

So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue. 
      Which nobody can deny.

Some sell it for profit, ’tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these. 
      Which nobody can deny.