Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/391



Market Hill, as well appears, By chronicle of ancient date, There stood for many hundred years A spacious thorn before the gate. Hither came every village maid, And on the boughs her garland hung; And here, beneath the spreading shade, Secure from satyrs sate and sung. Sir Archibald, that valorous knight, The lord of all the fruitful plain, Would come and listen with delight; For he was fond of rural strain. (Sir Archibald, whose favourite name Shall stand for ages on record, By Scottish bards of highest fame, Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord .) But time with iron teeth, I ween, Has canker'd all its branches round; No fruit or blossom to be seen, Its head reclining toward the ground. This aged, sickly, sapless thorn, Which must, alas! no longer stand, Behold the cruel dean in scorn Cuts down with sacrilegious hand. Dame