‘’Tis Teague O’Connor, him I recommend, ‘He’ll suit you famously, my worthy Friend.’ So Teague was then install’d Valet, and Groom, And sent to set to rights his Master’s Room. As dinner-time approach’d, Ward bid him stay, He’d home to dress, and take him on his way; And John, rigg’d out in his Best Coat and Feather, Waited for Ward, and off they went together. The Commandant, with every wish to please, Scouted those chilling forms that banish’d ease; Tho’ plac’d in Power, Dignity, and Trust, Was kind to all, and to the Service Just. The dinner o’er, the festive glass did flow, John found himself a little queer or so; Felt too, a sort of swimming in his head, So stole away, resolved to go to bed. When oft to write a Book we undertake, If from the subject we a circuit make, Some apt allusions may our minds engage, Perchance for profit, to swell out our Page; The little I may venture to intrude, I introduce, by way of Interlude. Your mercy then, good Critics, I entreat, Mine is a sort of stuffing to my Meat; Something of Foreign matter I must tell, Or this my tale will not go down so well. In every Country there are customs known, Which they preserve exclusively their own.[8] The Portuguese, by some odd whims infected, Have Cloacina’s temple quite rejected; How they arrange _their Worship_, we shall know, By the disaster that befel our Beau. Our Hero gaily sporting out a Song, And cutting angles as he glid along, Some Damsel, heedlessly, from upper floor, Pandora’s incense on his head did pour. Drench’d, buffeted, he had no time to think, Saluted by a compound of such Stink; Smother’d all over by the filthy souse, He reach’d his heart up, ere he reach’d his House. Teague, by his Master’s nasty figure struck, Dryly, ‘He wished him joy of his good luck’; Then seiz’d a Tub, and with assiduous care, With water wash’d the ordure from his hair. ‘Here, prythee, ease me of my Hat and Coat; ‘O C----t! the filthy stuff’s gone down my throat. ‘O curse them, and their beastly, D----n’d emulsions; ‘O Lord! my wretched guts are in convulsions! ‘Give me a Dram. ’Od rot the nasty Vixen, ‘She’s ruined my best Coat, with her d----n’d Mixen.’ Now scour’d, and sweeten’d, Johnny whining said, ‘O Teague, I’m horrid sick, shew me to Bed.’ Teague spread the folded Blanket in a crack, And for a Pillow, placed his own Knapsack. Astonished John his Servant’s conduct viewing, In trem’lous accents ask’d what he was doing? ‘O, no great matter, Sir,’ replies O’Connor, ‘I’m making up your Bed, an’ plase your honour.’ ‘A Bed for me!’ says John, half chok’d with rage, Says Teague, ‘You’ll soundly sleep there, I’ll engage.’ Poor John, exhausted now, and sighing deep, In sadness stretch’d himself, and groan’d to sleep. Scarce had the Sun arose in all his glory, Ere Johnny flew to Ward to tell his story. ‘Alas! dear Ward, ’tis fact what now I tell ye,