No 'Squire to be found
The neighbourhood round
(For, under the rose,
I would rather chuse those);
If your wives will permit

ye,

Come here, out of pity,
To ease a poor lady,
And beg her a play-day.

So may you be feen
No more in the spleen!
May Walmsley give wine,
Like a hearty divine!
May Whaley difgrace.
Dull Daniel's whey-face!
And may your three spouses
Let you lie at friends
houses!

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728.

DERMOT, SHEELA H.

A NYMPH and fwain, Sheelah and Dermot hight,

Who wont to weed the court of Gosford

Knight;

While each with ftubbed knife remov'd the roots,
That rais'd between the ftones their daily shoots i
As at their work they fate in counterview,
With mutual beauty fmit, their paffion grew.
Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly-flowing strain
The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.
DERMOT.

My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,

Than strongest weeds that grow these stones betwixt : My fpud these nettles from the ftones can part;

No knife fo keen to weed thee from my heart.

*Sir Arthur Achefon.

SHEELAH.

SHEELAH.

My love for gentle Dermot fafter grows,

Than

yon tall dock that rifes to thy nose. Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O! Love rooted out again will never grow.

DERMOT.

4

No more that brier thy tender leg fhall rake: (I fpare the thiftles for Sir Arthur's * fake.) Sharp are the ftones; take thou this rushy mat; The hardest bum will bruife with fitting fquat.

SHEELAH.

Thy breeches, torn behind, ftand gaping wide;
This petticoat fhall fave thy dear back-fide;
Nor need I blufh; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing elfe but fweat.

DERMOT.

At an old ftubborn root I chanc'd to tug,
When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug:
A longer ha'p'orth never did I fee;

This, deareft Sheelah, thou shalt fhare with me.
SHEELAH.

In at the pantry-door this morn I flipt,
And from the fhelf a charming cruft I whipt:
+ Dennis was out, and I got hither fafe;
And thou, my dear, fhalt have the bigger half.

*Who was a great lover of Scotland.

+ Sir Arthur's butler.

VOL. II.

F

DERMOT.

DERMOT.

When you faw Tady at long-bullets play,
You fate and lous'd him all a fun-shine day.
How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,
Or crack fuch lice as his betwixt your nails?
SHEELAH.

When you with Onah stood behind a ditch,
I peep'd, and faw you kifs the dirty bitch.
Dermot, how could you touch these nasty fluts?
I almost wish'd this fpud were in your guts,

DERMOT.

If Onah once I kifs'd, forbear to chide; Her aunt's my goffip by my father's fide: But, if I ever touch her lips again,

May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain!

SHEELAH.

Dermot, I fwear, though' Tady's locks could hold
Ten thousand lice, and every loufe was gold;
Him on my lap you never more fhall fee;
Or may I lose my weeding-knife-and thee!
DERMOT.

O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass,
A pair of brogues to bear thee dry to mafs!
But fee, where Norah with the fowins comes.
Then let us rife, and reft our weary bums.

*Shoes with flat low heels.

ON

ON THE

FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S-HOLE*,

WITH THE DOCTOR† AT THEIR HEAD.

N. B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR.

Sent as from an OFFICER in the ARMY. 1728.

FAIR ladies, number five,

Who, in your mérry freaks,

With little Tom contrive
To feaft on ale and fteaks;

While he fits by a-grinning,

To fee you fafe in Sot's-hole,
Set up with greasy linen,

And neither mugs nor pots whole:

Alas! I never thought,

A prieft would please your palate; Befides, I'll hold a groat,

An alehoufe in Dublin, famous for beef-fteaks.

+ Dr. Thomas Sheridan.

And we fhall take you rather
To be a midnight pack
Of witches met together,
With Beelzebub in black.

It fills my heart with woe,
To think, fuch ladies fine
Should be reduc'd fo low
To treat a dull Divine.

Be by a Parfon cheated!

Had you been cunning stagers, You might yourselves be treated By Captains and by Majors.

See how corruption grows,

While mothers, daughters, aunts,

Inftead of powder'd beaux,

From pulpits chufe gallants.

If we, who wear our wigs

With fan-tail and with fnake,
Are bubbled thus by prigs;
Z-ds! who would be a rake?

Had I a heart to fight,

I'd knock the Doctor down; Or could I read or write,

Egad! I'd wear a gown.

Then leave him to his birch *

And at The Rofe on Sunday,
The parfon safe at church,
I'll treat you with burgundy.

* Dr. Sheridan was a fchool-mafter.

THE