Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/456



SOON as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care, She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair; No British miss sincerer grief has known, Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown. She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread, And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed; Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall. In peals of thunder now she roars, and now, She gently whimpers like a lowing cow: Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears: Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears, Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain, When from the thatch drips fast a show'r of rain. In vain she search'd each cranny of the house, Each gaping chink, impervious to a mouse. "Was it for this (she cried) with daily care Within thy reach I set the vinegar, " And