A long-ear’d beast, and a sputt’ring old Whig,
I wish he were in it, and dancing a jig.[13]

A long-ear’d beast, and liquor to write,
Is a damnable smell both morning and night.[14]

A long-ear’d beast, and the child of a sheep,
At Whist they will make a desperate sweep.[15]

A beast long-ear’d, and till midnight you stay,
Will cover a house much better than clay.[16]

A long-ear’d beast, and the drink you love best,
You call him a sloven in earnest for jest.[17]

A long-ear’d beast, and the sixteenth letter,
I’d not look at all unless I look’d better.[18]

A long-ear’d beast give me, and eggs unsound,
Or else I will not ride one inch of ground.[19]

A long-ear’d beast, another name for jeer,
To ladies’ skins there nothing comes so near.[20]

A long-ear’d beast, and kind noise of a cat,
Is useful in journeys, take notice of that.[21]

A long-ear’d beast, and what seasons your beef,
On such an occasion the law gives relief.[22]

A long-ear’d beast, a thing that force must drive in,
Bears up his house, that’s of his own contriving.[23]

[Footnote 1:  A shovel.] [Footnote 2:  Aspiring.] [Footnote 3:  A switch.] [Footnote 4:  A skewer.] [Footnote 5:  A sparable; a small nail in a shoe.] [Footnote 6:  A shock.] [Footnote 7:  A sloven.] [Footnote 8:  Asperse. (Pearce was an architect, who built the Parliament-House, Dublin.)] [Footnote 9:  A soul.] [Footnote 10:  A slice.] [Footnote 11:  A scar.] [Footnote 12:  A swallow.] [Footnote 13:  A sty.] [Footnote 14:  A sink.] [Footnote 15:  A slam.] [Footnote 16:  A slate.] [Footnote 17:  A swine.] [Footnote 18:  Askew.] [Footnote 19:  A saddle.] [Footnote 20:  A smock.] [Footnote 21:  A spur.] [Footnote 22:  Assault.] [Footnote 23:  A snail.]

POEMS COMPOSED AT MARKET HILL

ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL.[1] 1727

At Market-Hill, as well appears
  By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
  A spacious thorn before the gate.

Hither came every village maid,
  And on the boughs her garland hung,
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
  Secure from satyrs sat and sung.

Sir Archibald,[2] that valorous knight. 
  The lord of all the fruitful plain,
Would come to listen with delight,
  For he was fond of rural strain.

(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name
  Shall stand for ages on record,
By Scottish bards of highest fame,
  Wise Hawthornden and Stirling’s lord.[3])

But time with iron teeth, I ween,
  Has canker’d all its branches round;
No fruit or blossom to be seen,
  Its head reclining toward the ground.

This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,
  Which must, alas! no longer stand,
Behold the cruel Dean in scorn
  Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.