DERMOT. When you faw Tady at long-bullets play, You fat and lous'd him all the fun-fhine day. How could you, Sheelah, liften to his tales, Or crack fuchlice as his between your nails? SHEELAH. When you with Oonah ftood behind a ditch, I peep'd, and faw you kifs the dirty bitch. Dermot, how could you touch those nasty fluts! I almost wish'd this fpud were in your guts. DERMOT. If Oonah once I kifs'd, forbear to chide; Her aunt's my goffip by my father's fide: But, if I ever touch her lips again, May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain. SHEELAH. Dermot, I fwear, though Tady's locks could hold Ten thousand lice, and ev'ry loufe was gold, Him on my lap you never more should fee; Or may Ilofe my weeding-knife---and thee. DERMOT, DERMOT. Oh! could I earn for thee, my lovely lafs, A pair of brogues to bear thee dry to mass! But fee, where Norahwith the fowins comes-Then let us rife, and reft our weary bums. MARY the Cook-maid's Letter to Dr. SHERIDAN. Written in the Year 1723. I faw fuch another WELL, if ever I faw man fince my mother bound my head! You a gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where you were bred. I am fure fuch words do not become a man of your cloth; I would not give fuch language to a dog, faith and troth. Yes, you call'd my mafter a knave: fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a fhame For a parfon, who fhou'd know better things, to come out with fuch a name : Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a fhame and a fin; And the dean my mafter is an honester man than you and all your kin : He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body: My mafter is a perfonable man, and not a fpindle-fhank'd hoddy-doddy. And now, whereby I find make an excufe, you would fain Because my master one day in anger call'd you goofe; Which, and I am fure I have been his fervant four years fince October, And he never call'd me worse than sweetheart, drunk or sober: Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Though you and your come-rogues keep him out fo late in your wicked college. You fay you will eat grafs on his grave: a christian eat grass! Whereby you now confefs yourself to be a goose or an ass: But that's as much as to say, that my mafter fhould die before ye; Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true ftory: And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my master; what care I? And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. Every body knows, that I love to tell truth and fhame the devil. I am but a poor fervant; but I think gen tlefolks fhould be civil. Befides, you found fault with our vittles one day that you was here; I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year. And Saunders the man fays, you are always jefting and mocking: Mary, faid he (one day, as I was mending my master's stocking,) My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school-- I thought my mafter a wife man, but that man makes him a fool. Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a difh-clout to his tail. And now I must go and get Saunders to direct this letter; For I write but a fad fcrawl; but my fister Marget fhe writes better. Well, but I muft run and make the bed, before my master comes from pray'rs; And fee now, it ftrikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs: Whereof Whereof I cou'd fay more to your verses, if I cou'd write written hand: And so I remain, in a civil way, your vant to command, fer MARY. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN Mad MULLINIX and TIMOTHY *. Written in 1728. M. I Own, 'tis not my bread and butter; But prythee, Tim, why all this clutter? Why ever in these raging fits, Damning to hell the Jacobites? When, if you search the kingdom round, M. The Tories are gone ev'ry man over T. G-- damn the lyars again. *See Tim and the fables, Vol. VII. |