Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/397

Rh But, while in an ill tone, I murder poor Milton, The dean, you will swear, Is at study or prayer. He's all the day sauntering, With labourers bantering, Among his colleagues, A parcel of Teagues, Whom he brings in among us And bribes with mundungus; Hail, fellow, well met, All dirty and wet: Find out, if you can, Who's master, who's man; Who makes the best figure, The dean or the digger; And which is the best At cracking a jest. How proudly he talks Of zigzags and walks; And all the day raves Of cradles and caves; And boasts of his feats, His grottoes and seats; Shows all his gewgaws, And gapes for applause; A fine occupation For one in his station! A hole where a rabbit Would scorn to inhabit, Dug out in an hour; He calls it a bower. But, O! how we laugh, To see a wild calf Come, driven by heat, And foul the green seat; Or run helter-skelter To his arbour, for shelter, Where all goes to ruin The dean has been doing: The girls of the village Come flocking for pillage, Pull down the fine briers And thorns, to make fires; But yet are so kind To leave something behind: No more need be said on't, I smell when I tread on't. Dear friend, doctor Jinny, If I could but win ye, Or Walmsley or Whaley, To come hither daily, Since Fortune, my foe, Will needs have it so, That I'm, by her frowns, Condemn'd to black gowns;. VII.