The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the steeple got a shock;
From whence the neighbouring farmer calls
The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2]
  The vicar once a-week creeps in,
Sits with his knees up to his chin;
Here cons his notes, and takes a whet,
Till the small ragged flock is met. 
  A traveller, who by did pass,
Observed the roof behind the grass;
On tiptoe stood, and rear’d his snout,
And saw the parson creeping out: 
Was much surprised to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low. 
  A schoolboy ran unto’t, and thought
The crib was down, the blackbird caught. 
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forced for safety to alight,
And, stepping o’er the fabric roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof. 
  Warburton[3] took it in his noddle,
This building was design’d a model;
Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in. 
  Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict,
And every one was pleased that heard it;
All that you make this stir about
Is but a still which wants a spout. 
The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess’d
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy’s tomb. 
  The doctor’s family came by,
And little miss began to cry,
Give me that house in my own hand! 
Then madam bade the chariot stand,
Call’d to the clerk, in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child: 
That thing, I mean, among the kale;
And here’s to buy a pot of ale. 
  The clerk said to her in a heat,
What! sell my master’s country seat,
Where he comes every week from town! 
He would not sell it for a crown. 
Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother;
In half an hour thou’lt make another. 
  Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss
A finer house ten times than this;
The dean will give me willow sticks,
And Joe my apron-full of bricks.

[Footnote 1:  Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, for venerable white locks.—­Scott.  He had a claim on the Irish Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid.  See “Prose Works,” vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe’s desire for a collector’s place.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 2:  Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift’s.—­Dublin Edition.]

[Footnote 3:  Dr. Swift’s curate at Laracor.]

[Footnote 4:  Stella.]

[Footnote 5:  Minister of Trim.]

[Footnote 6:  The waiting-woman.]

A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1]

Scene, the Royal Exchange

CORYDON

Now the keen rigour of the winter’s o’er,
No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more,
While other girls confess the genial spring,
And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing,
Secure from cold, their lovely necks display,
And throw each useless chafing-dish away;
Why sits my Phillis discontented here,
Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? 
Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay,
Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play?