In church your grandsire cut his throat; To do the job too long he tarried: He should have had my hearty vote To cut his throat before he married. ON THE SAME THE JUDGE SPEAKS I'm not the grandson of that ass Quin;[1] Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin. My grandame had gallants by twenties, And bore my mother by a 'prentice. This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he In Christ-Church cut his throat for jealousy. And, since the alderman was mad you say, Then I must be so too, _ex traduce_. [Footnote 1: Alderman Quin, the judge's maternal grandfather, who cut his throat in church.--_W. E. B._] EPIGRAM IN ANSWER TO THE DEAN'S VERSES ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS [1] What though the Dean hears not the knell Of the next church's passing bell; What though the thunder from a cloud, Or that from female tongue more loud, Alarm not; At the Drapier's ear, Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear. [Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 284.] HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XIV PARAPHRASED AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND 1726 THE INSCRIPTION Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves; Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand; Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land! Although the metaphor be worn and stale, Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail; Let me suppose thee for a ship a while, And thus address thee in the sailor style. Unhappy ship, thou art return'd in vain; New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.[1] Look to thyself, and be no more the sport Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port. Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide, Like faithful counsellors, on either side. Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood, The single pillar for his country's good, To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind, Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind; Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel The waves impetuous enter at your keel; Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke, When the strong cords of union once are broke. Tom by a sudden tempest is thy sail, Expanded to invite a milder gale. As when some writer in a public cause His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws, While all is calm, his arguments prevail; The people's voice expands his paper sail; Till power, discharging all her stormy bags, Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags, The nation scared, the author doom'd to death, Who fondly put his trust in poplar breath. A larger sacrifice in vain you vow; There's not a power above will help you now; A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects, In vain from injured Heaven relief expects. 'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke That thy descent is from the British oak; Or, when your name and family you boast, From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast. Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine, Her sons descended from the British line; Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains On French records for twenty long campaigns; Yet, from an empress now a captive grown,