Sure then, for want of better folks
To pledge, his clerk was orthodox. 
  Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street,
Where beaux and belles in parties meet;
Where gilded chairs and coaches throng,
And jostle as they troll along;
Where tea and coffee hourly flow,
And gape-seed does in plenty grow;
And Griz (no clock more certain) cries,
Exact at seven, “Hot mutton-pies!”
There Lady Luna in her sphere
Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now she wanes, and, as ’tis said,
Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. 
There—­but ’tis endless to write down
All the amusements of the town;
And spouse will think herself quite undone,
To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London;
And care we must our wives to please,
Or else—­we shall be ill at ease. 
  You see, my lord, what ’tis I lack,
’Tis only some convenient tack,
Some parsonage-house with garden sweet,
To be my late, my last retreat;
A decent church, close by its side,
There, preaching, praying, to reside;
And as my time securely rolls,
To save my own and other souls.

[Footnote 1:  This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to in the preceding poems.—­Scott.]

[Footnote 2:  The name of the Duke’s seat in Suffolk.—­N.]

[Footnote 3:  Bishop Sterne.—­H.]

[Footnote 4:  The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there are two deans.—­Scott.]

THE DUKE’S ANSWER BY DR. SWIFT

Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified: 
I hope to make you yet as clean
As that same Viz, St. Patrick’s dean. 
I’ll give thee surplice, verge, and stall,
And may be something else withal;
And, were you not so good a writer,
I should present you with a mitre. 
Write worse, then, if you can—­be wise-
Believe me, ’tis the way to rise. 
Talk not of making of thy nest: 
Ah! never lay thy head to rest! 
That head so well with wisdom fraught,
That writes without the toil of thought! 
While others rack their busy brains,
You are not in the least at pains. 
Down to your dean’ry now repair,
And build a castle in the air. 
I’m sure a man of your fine sense
Can do it with a small expense. 
There your dear spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ether,
When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour,
She’ll help your wife when she’s in labour,
Well skill’d in midwife artifices,
For she herself oft falls in pieces. 
There you shall see a raree show
Will make you scorn this world below,
When you behold the milky-way,
As white as snow, as bright as day;
The glittering constellations roll
About the grinding arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your ears,