Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/253

 {| cellspacing=0 cellpadding=0 'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies; One shivers with the arctick wind, One hears the polar axis grind. Good John 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 nam'd the thing without a frown, When, much fatigu'd with sermon study, He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; No fit companion could be found, To push the lazy bottle round: 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 gapeseed 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;
 * Will barely do; but if your grace|| rowspan="3" |
 * Could make them hundreds — charming place!
 * Thou then wouldst show another face.
 * }Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies,
 * Thou then wouldst show another face.
 * }Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies,