  squiggle-line Once on a time a Rev'rend Dean There lived, (and you know whom I mean,) Keen as a hawk each fault to seize, And Swift to blame, as slow to please; Swell'd up with pride to height of tumour, Though all admired his dogged humour. But since our Pompey knew not how To speak, as 'twere, but in 'bow wow!' The Muse invites me to rehearse His constant bark in doggrel verse: Keen irony can't hope to chime Without some small relief from rhyme, Though where you'd feel the sharpest tingle, You lose the smart amidst the jingle! Doubtless (like Swift) we've now-a-days Both lords and ladies shy of praise, Of errors, ills, for ever mumbling, Yet love 'em for the sake of grumbling. Had Swift known how to hold his dish up, I've tried to make him look more recent, And dock'd him where he's quite indecent. On one thing you may quite rely,— I am no busy, base Paul Pry. My best advices really flow From what I really 'happ'n' to know, Nor could escape in any wise, Save shutting both my ears and eyes. My book may sell, or fall dead flat,— Yet Meadows makes me safe from that; Since, to inspire, I've given him some Of Master's truly 'precious rum,' Deeming him best of all the bunch— But mum! for what relates to 'Punch!' And may each critic's 'ifs and buts' But vie with his good-humoured cuts: For I profess the constant aim Of yielding ev'ry one I name (Thus pleasing all, e'en to the letter) Either a laugh—or something better. Now if I've well explained my plan, Why, farewell Master! farewell Man! And free from fuss, I make no bones To sign, Yours thoroughly, John Jones. |
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