You’d make a dozen of Popes and Gays. 
  Our weather’s good, our sky is clear;
We’ve every joy, if you were here;
So lofty and so bright a sky
Was never seen by Ireland’s eye! 
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I shall to Quilca go;
To see M’Faden’s horny brothers
First suck, and after bull their mothers;
To see, alas! my wither’d trees! 
To see what all the country sees! 
My stunted quicks, my famish’d beeves,
My servants such a pack of thieves;
My shatter’d firs, my blasted oaks,
My house in common to all folks,
No cabbage for a single snail,
My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail;
My no green peas, my few green sprouts;
My mother always in the pouts;
My horses rid, or gone astray;
My fish all stolen or run away;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry starved, the corn all sold. 
A man come now from Quilca says,
“They’ve[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;”
But, what must fret and vex me more,
He says, “They stole the keys before.
They’ve stol’n the knives from all the forks;
And half the cows from half the sturks.” 
Nay more, the fellow swears and vows,
“They’ve stol’n the sturks from half the cows:” 
With many more accounts of woe,
Yet, though the devil be there, I’ll go: 
’Twixt you and me, the reason’s clear,
Because I’ve more vexation here.

[Footnote 1:  Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.—­Dublin Edition.]

[Footnote 2:  They is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, “They have stolen it.” Dublin Edition.—­W.  E. B.]

AN INVITATION TO DINNER
FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT
1727

I’ve sent to the ladies this morning to warn ’em,
To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1]
Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship
Can take up with me, and my friend Stella’s leanship.[2]
I’ve got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret,
That’s just disengaged from the toils of a net: 
An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted,
With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted: 
Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies,
Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes;
And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died,
And now they’re to lie in some crumbs that are fried. 
My wine will inspire you with joy and delight,
’Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright;
An emblem of one that you love, I suppose,
Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4]
Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope,
We’ll wean you from sighing for England I hope;
When we are together there’s nothing that is dull,
There’s nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall. 
We’ve sworn to make out an agreeable feast,
Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste.