Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.—­HOR. Epist., I, ii, 47.

It was, my lord, the dexterous shift
Of t’other Jonathan, viz.  Swift,
But now St. Patrick’s saucy dean,
With silver verge, and surplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond’s grace,
In looser rhyme to beg a place. 
A place he got, yclept a stall,
And eke a thousand pounds withal;
And were he less a witty writer,
He might as well have got a mitre. 
  Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble lays my thanks to offer,
Approach your grace with grateful heart,
My thanks and verse both void of art,
Content with what your bounty gave,
No larger income do I crave: 
Rejoicing that, in better times,
Grafton requires my loyal lines. 
Proud! while my patron is polite,
I likewise to the patriot write! 
Proud! that at once I can commend
King George’s and the Muses’ friend! 
Endear’d to Britain; and to thee
(Disjoin’d, Hibernia, by the sea)
Endear’d by twice three anxious years,
Employ’d in guardian toils and cares;
By love, by wisdom, and by skill;
For he has saved thee ’gainst thy will. 
  But where shall Smedley make his nest,
And lay his wandering head to rest? 
Where shall he find a decent house,
To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? 
O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure,
In wholesome soil, and ether pure;
The garden stored with artless flowers,
In either angle shady bowers. 
No gay parterre, with costly green,
Within the ambient hedge be seen: 
Let Nature freely take her course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful force;
No shears shall check her sprouting vigour,
Nor shape the yews to antic figure: 
A limpid brook shall trout supply,
In May, to take the mimic fly;
Round a small orchard may it run,
Whose apples redden to the sun. 
Let all be snug, and warm, and neat;
For fifty turn’d a safe retreat,
A little Euston[2] may it be,
Euston I’ll carve on every tree. 
But then, to keep it in repair,
My lord—­twice fifty pounds a-year
Will barely do; but if your grace
Could make them hundreds—­charming place! 
Thou then wouldst show another face. 
  Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies,
’Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: 
One shivers with the arctic wind,
One hears the polar axis grind. 
Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret,
Makes the place warm, that one may bear it. 
He has a purse to keep a table,
And eke a soul as hospitable. 
My heart is good; but assets fail,
To fight with storms of snow and hail. 
Besides, the country’s thin of people,
Who seldom meet but at the steeple: 
The strapping dean, that’s gone to Down,
Ne’er named the thing without a frown,
When, much fatigued with sermon study,
He felt his brain grow dull and muddy;
No fit companion could be found,
To push the lazy bottle round: