_R_, Tom, you mistake the matter quite; Your barking curs will seldom bite And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter, He barks as fast as he can utter. He prates in spite of all impediment, While none believes that what he said he meant; Puts in his finger and his thumb To grope for words, and out they come. He calls you rogue; there's nothing in it, He fawns upon you in a minute: "Begs leave to rail, but, d--n his blood! He only meant it for your good: His friendship was exactly timed, He shot before your foes were primed: By this contrivance, Mr. Dean, By G--! I'll bring you off as clean--"[3] Then let him use you e'er so rough, "'Twas all for love," and that's enough. But, though he sputter through a session, It never makes the least impression: Whate'er he speaks for madness goes, With no effect on friends or foes.
_T_. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack Can set the mastiff on your back. I own, his madness is a jest, If that were all. But he's possest Incarnate with a thousand imps, To work whose ends his madness pimps; Who o'er each string and wire preside, Fill every pipe, each motion guide; Directing every vice we find In Scripture to the devil assign'd; Sent from the dark infernal region, In him they lodge, and make him legion. Of brethren he's a false accuser; A slanderer, traitor, and seducer; A fawning, base, trepanning liar; The marks peculiar of his sire. Or, grant him but a drone at best; A drone can raise a hornet's nest. The Dean had felt their stings before; And must their malice ne'er give o'er? Still swarm and buzz about his nose? But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes. A patriot is a dangerous post, When wanted by his country most; Perversely comes in evil times, Where virtues are imputed crimes. His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant; A traitor to the vices regnant. What spirit, since the world began, Could always bear to strive with man? Which God pronounced he never would, And soon convinced them by a flood. Yet still the Dean on freedom raves; His spirit always strives with slaves. 'Tis time at last to spare his ink, And let them rot, or hang, or sink.
[Footnote 1: Son of Dr. Charles Leslie.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 4: Joshua, Lord Allen. For particulars of the satire upon this individual, see "Advertisement by Swift in his defence against Joshua, Lord Allen," "Prose Works," vii, 168-175, and notes.--_W. E. B._]